


First Impressions

by Lookafterlou1234



Category: One Direction
Genre: Hurrah for more slow burn, Jane Austen basically threw up all over this fic, M/M, Side Lilo - Freeform, but it's heavily unrequited, it's gonna be a long one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:03:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 69,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3446465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lookafterlou1234/pseuds/Lookafterlou1234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis just wants his life to be like a Jane Austen novel: servants pampering to your every need, decadent parties every other day, and falling in love by the light of a ballroom. </p>
<p>Instead, his life consists of a roomate who survives off coffee and his own anxiety, a case of writer's block that crawled out of the deepest circle of Hell, and Harry Styles, a local librarian who hides behind walls of books and an arrogant smile. </p>
<p>Seriously, Lizzie Bennet had it easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"The very moment I first beheld him, my heart was irrevocably gone."_ \- Jane Austen, Love and Friendship 

 

Louis is never drinking again. 

 

This is it. He means it this time. He will never feel the sweet, numbing sensations of alcohol again. He, and his liver, cannot take much more. See, Louis at three o’clock in the morning had thought he and tequila were friends. Tequila was actually Louis’ _best_ friend at that time, after he’d stared at a blank laptop screen for three hours and needed to be consoled. But Louis the following morning knew better. So, so much better. Tequila and Louis are not friends. Tequila bad. Tequila _evil._

 

No wonder Louis can’t write. He has regressed to the speech of a Neanderthal. There goes the four year degree in English language. 

 

Louis groans into the wood of his desk, which he'd fallen alseep on at four in the morning. He slowly sits up, his back aching from sleeping hunched over in an office chair. He unsticks a piece of paper from his cheek, looking at it hopefully. He vaquely remembers trying to write with paper and a pen instead of on his laptop, so maybe he actually got some words down. 

 

Nope, nothing. Not a fucking thing, unless you count the massive ink stain on his jeans from his pen exploding. Which sadly, does not count as actual literature. Louis sighs and sits up straighter, cracking his spine off the back of the chair. He drags a hand down his face and then runs it through his feathery brown hair. 

"What a shitshow." he mutters, taking in the room around him. His room is a mess. Even though the desk is pushed up to the wall, right next to the window, he managed to spread his pitiful writing attempts through the entire bedroom. Papers litter the floor, his laptop somehow ended up balancing precariously on his wardrobe, and he sees two empty bottles of tequila already. 

 

Louis stands up, stretching his arms up over his head and inhaling. His head is pounding already: a steady _thump-thump_ that Louis knows no amount of Advil will ease. Okay, so Louis has two options. 1. Take the medicine and suffer through the rest of the day in hung over misery. Or 2. Crack open another bottle of tequila and just keep getting drunker.

 

Louis glances at the clock hanging on his wall and shakes his head, dismissing Option Number 2. It's only ten o'clock. No drinking in the morning. He hasn't reached the forewarned alcoholic stage of authorship yet: he's only twenty two. Right. Advil it is. 

 

That's if he can find it. 

 

Louis staggers out of his room, holding his hand over his eyes to protect himself from the light shining in from his window. He thumps down the stairs, every footfall making his head pound harder. Going down a tiny hallway into an even tinier kitchen, Louis opens the medicine cabinet and peers inside, hoping he'll find the pill bottle. His flat in London is basically the size of a matchbox, and sharing it with another person makes it even more cramped. Despite the small size, it's amazing how quickly things can get lost. Like much needed pain relievers. 

 

"O true Apothecary! Thy drugs are quick!" Louis quotes _Romeo and Juliet_ as he finds the bright turquoise bottle and swallows two Advil dry. Shutting the cabinet door, he sighs, massaging his temples with his fingertips. 

"Shakespeare definitely never had these problems." he mumbles to himself. (Louis is beginning to think he spends more time talking to himself than he does other people. Sometimes, a voice even talks back. Which might be a problem. Oh, the curse of being a poet. Or maybe just clinically insane.) 

 

"Then again, Shakespeare didn't have plagiarism laws. When he needed inspiration, he just borrowed from one of his buddies, made their story better, and fobbed it off as his own. Whereas I have no writing buddies to steal from, and even if I did, I could've been kicked out of school for plagiarism." 

 

Sadly, nobody responds. Not even a voice in his head this time. Damn. 

 

Louis walks over to the scratched kitchen table that he'd taken from his mother's basement when he moved out and sinks down into a chair. He sees a pink Post-It note stuck to the table, next to a huge glass of water and a packet of Fruit Pastilles, his favourite sweets. He picks up the note and reads it, a slow smile spreading across his face. 

 

_"Good morning, Louis! I got in at 4:30 last night and found you passed out at your desk. Tried to move you to your bed, but you wouldn't be budged. Figured you'd need some cheering up this morning, so I ran to the shop around the corner after I woke up and got these sweets for you. Drink lots of water, sleep it off. I'll see you this evening and fill you in on all the gory details of my day. Maybe I'll actually get to cut somebody open!:D_

_~ Liam."_

 

Louis knows that the last line of his roomate's note could be a tad disconcerting. However, he isn't worried by Liam's plans for the day, because Liam is a surgical intern in the Royal London Hospital. His _dream_ would be to cut somebody open, because interns rarely get to scrub in on surgeries, according to Liam, at least. And of course, being the fucking elite human that he is, Liam tried to cheer Louis about his self inflicted hangover. The poor guy sleeps about four hours a night, and he'd cut into that precious time to buy Louis sweeties. 

 

Fuck, Louis is living with an actual angel. He'll have to start looking for feathers shedding all over the place. 

 

Louis doesn't understand why Liam keeps it up, honestly. He gets the shittiest hospital shifts, either early in the morning or the middle of the goddamn night. From what Liam tells Louis, his bosses treat him like shit. He's exhausted all the time: Louis gets minimal amounts of sleep, but he knows for a fact that Liam gets even less. Whenever he's not working or sleeping, he's studying. There is so much studying involved. The rare times Louis and Liam are in their flat at the same time, Liam will have Louis quiz him using flash cards. He's picked up medical knowledge by mere osmosis. Hell, even _osmosis_ is a scientific term. 

 

So basically, living with Liam was like watching an episode of _Grey's Anatomy,_ minus all the raunchy sex. People must think they've both taken a vow of chastity, the amount of action Louis and Liam get. They're both highly attractive males, but Liam is too busy for romance (and all it's derivatives) and considering that the last time Louis left the house was to buy more tequila from Tesco, he doesn't interact enough with fellow human beings to get laid. 

 

There's only only one fellow human being that Louis wants, anyways. 

 

Contemplating his probable future of being a celebit hermit, Louis wraps his hand around the cool glass of water. He doesn't trust himself to lift it, so he slides it towards himself, probably scratching up the table even more. Bring the cup to his mouth, he takes a long gulp of the water, feeling it soothe his dry throat. Setting the glass down, he reaches for the Fruit Pastilles and opens the packet, popping a banana-flavoured one into his mouth. 

 

Seriously. God bless Liam Payne. Louis hopes some major trauma comes into the hospital today and Liam gets to cut open their abdominal cavity or something. Louis stands up, as the room only moderately spins around him, and he walks over to the living room of the apartment. He lays down on the ratty red couch they'd found left in the flat when they'd bought it and shuts his eyes. 

 

"Maybe as I lay here, some brilliant idea will hit me. I'll write a poem that will change the goddamn world: a poem that "hipsters" reblog on tumblr all the time, with floral edits in the background." Louis says, his eyes blankly focused on the ceiling. 

 

Silence. 

 

"Or I'll become a novelist. The next J. K. Rowling, because that'd be fucking sick." 

 

Even more silence. Louis feels it crashing down on him, like the waves of the ocean. All he hears is the steady _tick-tock_ of the clock on the mantle and the sound of his own breathing. It's eerie, really. He's sick of being alone. Louis has never been an introvert: he minored in theatre in university, for Christ's sake. He's no blushing wallflower. 

 

He's just- tired all the time. Unmotivated. Stuck in a rut, because he can't write, and if he can't write, what else can he do? Writing was the one thing that brought him release. It took all those bottled up emotions and gave them somewhere to fucking _go_. And it's not that now Louis is going to burst from his own emotions: it's more like he doesn't have any left. He's empty. 

 

Louis' empty and he's alone and he's- he's just tired. 

 

"Or I could just go back to sleep." Louis mutters to himself as he curls up on his side, drawing his knees up to his chin. "Leemo may be able to function with four hours sleep, but I most certainly cannot." 

 

As he drops off, Louis doesn't even bother listening for a response this time. He knows nobody would answer anyway. 

 

Louis wakes up when he hears the _click_ of a key in the lock of the front door of the flat. He blinks awake, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Through half open eyes, he sees Liam bustle in through the front door, gusts of cold winter air somehow coming in with him. 

“Hey mate!” Liam calls, unwrapped his ridiculous bright orange scarf from around his neck and hanging it up on a hook. “How was your day?”

 

Louis blearily looks up at the clock hanging on the wall and. Was it really seven o’clock already? He’d literally slept the entire day away. Louis sits up and stretches his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders backwards until he hears the muscles pop. 

“My day was- restful.” he says with a faint smile, looking over his shoulder at Liam. “And I’m gonna guess yours was not.”

 

Liam looks the same as ever. Totally fucking exhausted. As Liam comes over and sinks into the couch beside him, Louis studies him worriedly. Liam rests his neck against the back of the sofa and shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. His entire face looks pinched, actually: pinched and tired and creased with worry lines. 

“You alright?” Louis asks hesitantly, putting a hand on Liam’s shoulder and gripping it comfortingly. He never really knows what happens at Liam’s job. It’s all emergencies and traumas and probably lots of blood and maybe some guts? 

 

It is only Liam’s third month into his internship year, but Louis has quickly picked up the habit of asking how his days go. Like- what if somebody _died_ and Liam needs to talk to someone about it? He has the resident from hell, a bitchy blonde named Dr. Jones, so Louis guesses she’s not really into discussing feelings over deaths. And Louis has known Liam for four years now, so he also knows that there’s only so much Liam can take before he snaps. 

 

So Louis always asks, and Liam always tells, and then they always go about their evening as if nothing was ever said. 

 

“A kid died today.” Liam says slowly. “The one I told you about on Monday? The little girl named Stacy with leukemia?”

Liam pauses, collecting himself for a few moments. Louis just sits and waits, knowing he’ll begin again soon enough. That’s another thing he always does. 

“And I know I should've expected it. She was Stage Four, for God’s sake.” Liam said, running a hand down his face. He looks at Louis then, and his usually warm brown eyes are wet. Pooling up with tears that threaten to overflow any second. His voice is weak, so he clears it. 

“But she was five years old.” Liam says miserably. “Five fucking years old, and now she’s dead, and two parents are still sobbing in her hospital room. “

 

Liam breaks, tears dribbling down his cheeks. Louis puts an arm around him and pulls him into his side, murmuring soft nothings into Liam’s clean-cut brown hair. Liam grips Louis and he can feel him shaking, his breath coming out in ragged, short bursts. 

“I’ve seen people die-” Liam mumbles into the soft fabric of Louis’ sweater. “But never a kid. A child-”

Louis nods, rubbing the palm of his hand up and down Liam’s back soothingly. He gently tugs at Liam’s arms until he gets him to let go. Gripping the collar of Liam’s white lab coat, Louis slides it off his back and throws it over the side of the couch, onto the floor. He needs to get it out of sight. 

 

See, Louis has this theory. Lian has two modes: Liam Mode and Doctor Mode. The first is when he’s normal and bubbly and happy. He’s not stressed about work or studying and anything else and just wants to have a laugh. Doctor Mode is when he’s like this: focused, intent on only one thing, and can’t relax. But lately, Louis has seen a blurring in the two. 

 

Liam's been experiencing insomnia, studying in the middle of the night until he leaves for work. He won’t laugh at Louis’ jokes and doesn’t even harass him about getting off his arse and getting a real job. (Not that Louis necessarily needs it, he’s got money flowing in, but that’s besides the point.)

 

Liam becomes a machine for God knows how many hours a day. He won’t let himself eat, sleep, or feel. So it’s Louis’ job to make sure he isn’t a machine whenever he sees him. Doctor Mode is being switched off right now. Because Louis had seen the effects of it before, when they were in uni together, and he isn't letting it happen Liam again. 

 

“Take your name tag off.” Louis instructs gently, reaching down and unclipping it. He throws it so it joins the lab coat. Liam sits numbly on the couch, his crying slowly stopping. Louis gets up and grabs a wad of tissues, pressing them into Liam’s hand. He compliantly dabs at his face, sniffling. Louis runs his fingers through his hair, mussing the carefully done quiff Liam does every morning. Unwind, unwind, unwind. 

“Have you had dinner yet?” Liam asks suddenly, looking up at Louis with swollen eyes. 

Louis almost laughs. He thinks _”No, I haven’t had dinner yet. Or lunch. Or breakfast either, unless you count a single candy. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve eaten anything solid in the past two days.”_

 

But that would make Liam sad, and Louis can’t have that, so he doesn’t say it. 

“Nah, haven’t yet. I was gonna wait for you to see what takeaway you wanted to order.” he lies easily. 

“I could make you something.” Liam offers. “I’d like to take care of someone today, even if its only just cooking some pasta or something.”

“You’ve taken care of loads of people, Leyum. Today, and on multiple other days.” Louis chides, taking Liam by the hands and pulling him up so he’s standing. “Now, I’ll order Chinese while you go and shower. You smell like a hospital.”

Liam’s mouth twitches into a smile and Louis feels some of the worry pooling in his stomach ease. It is a small smile, yes, but it’s still a smile, and he is on his way to being okay. 

“What’s that smell like, exactly? I think I’ve been desensitized to it, at this point.”

“Like antiseptic, and bad food, and waiting.”

“And you say you can’t write anymore, Lou.”

 

Good. Jokes at Louis’ expense are good. 

 

Liam goes off for his shower and then Louis hunts high and low in the kitchen for the number of their local Chinese place. He finds it underneath the refrigerator (don’t ask why) and orders two meals of lo mein. Fifteen minutes later, Liam is out of the shower, in the pajamas Louis got him for Christmas last year, and their food has arrived. 

“Let’s eat in the sitting room.” Louis says, grabbing the bags of food and heading towards the room. “It’ll be cozier in these harsh winter nights.”

“We haven’t got any trays to rest our plates on.” Liam admonished half heartedly, already sitting down on the couch and switching the television on. 

“Use copies of Gregory Stone’s book; he doesn’t give a shit.”

“Louis-”

 

Louis walks over to the rickety bookshelf, crammed into the corner of the sitting room. It’s weighed down on the bottom shelf with all Liam’s medical school textbooks. There are a few classics littering the shelves (Louis loves Jane Austen, okay). There’s also a lot of trashy romance novels and magazines. But along the very top shelf are about ten copies of the same book. _Reflections_ by Gregory Stone. 

 

Louis grabs two copies and heads back over to Liam, putting one on his knees and placing his Chinese food on top of it.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that-”

“Eat up- doesn’t putting food in the microwave fuck with the chemical structure and that’s why it never tastes as good? 

Liam rolls his eyes, but his appetite must win out, because he starts eating. He’s still careful not to spill any food along the cover of the book though. Louis sits down beside him and starts to eat, feeling Liam watch every forkful he brought to his mouth. 

“What?”

“I just think- I think that you, of all people, would treat a book better.”

“Well, not this book, because it’s shit. And besides, I’ve got literally a million copies upstairs in a box in my closet.”

“Well yeah, Lou. It makes sense that an author has multiple copies of his own book.” 

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, Liam.” Louis said nonchalantly. “Gregory Stone is a single Englishman who lives in reclusion on the moors of Scotland. It even says so on the dust jacket.”

“I helped you write that profile while we both hammered drunk during exam week and then you actually used it. Louis, I think I know more about this book than you do.”

 

That was probably true. After all, Liam was there the entire time. He knows how Louis stayed up almost every night their second year in university, writing poems. How he compiled them all in one big binder and then left them to sit alone for weeks before he typed them all out in one exhausting evening. Liam knows that he himself convinced Louis to send the manuscript to a publishing company. How hard Louis cried when he got his first rejection letter, and how hard they partied when they learned it was going to be published. 

 

He knows how Louis decided to publish under a pseudonym in case the book tanked. And how they'd gone to their local bookstore and just stared at all the copies of his book, _Louis_ book, the first day it had hit the shelves. Liam knows that the book had gotten huge, bigger than any of them had ever expected. The starred reviews flooded in, and with it came cash. And he knows how Louis isn’t spending any of it, he’s just letting it collect in the bank. (He’ll spend it eventually, Louis knows that. Probably on something stupid. Maybe his own personal island.)

 

Gregory Stone doesn’t exist. It’s all Louis. Louis’ words, his passion, his talent. And nobody knows that, except for Liam. Poetry circles have speculated wildly on who exactly Stone is, why he stays out of the limelight, and why hasn't he written another book yet? It's been a year and a half since _Reflections_ was published: why the fuck hasn't Stone gotten off his arse and written more poems? (But not even "Gregory Stone" knows the answer to that question.) 

 

So yes, Liam knows almost everything about Louis' book of love poems. But not everything. Liam doesn't know it was written about him. 

 

Kirkus Reviews had given _Reflections_ a four star review, exulting Stone’s use of extended metaphor. The Irish Times had sung its praises also, saying that Gregory Stone was the biggest up-and-coming poet of this decade. Hell, his book had been top of the goddamn _New York Times_ bestseller list for twelve consecutive weeks. 

 

But Louis’ favorite review of it had actually come from an unimportant little newspaper. Which was, funnily enough, the only newspaper of his hometown: _The Doncaster Daily_. Louis had been down to visit his family, checking up on his sisters (making sure that his mum was feeding them and they weren’t dying, more like), and he’d seen the paper opened on the kitchen table. 

 

_“Everyone has experienced the pain of unrequited love at some point or another.”_ the review had read. _"But in "Reflections", Stone takes it to a deeper level. He takes that pain, that yearning to be loved back, and transforms it into art. He makes it personal to the reader, and suddenly, you love the nameless muse of Stone’s, almost as much as he clearly does.”_

 

Louis might’ve cried reading that review. He might’ve torn it out of the newspaper and folded it carefully, putting it in his wallet between his driver’s license and Social Security card. He might’ve even considered getting the last line tattooed on his back at one point. 

 

The article might also still be in his wallet a full year and a half later, but c’mon, he’s allowed some indulgences. Plus, he couldn’t run the risk of Liam finding it and getting curious about who exactly all of Louis’ shitty, pining poetry was about. Louis thinks that Liam had just assumed that there was some guy in the past that Louis just couldn’t get over, or that he’d even faked all of the emotion behind the poetry. 

 

He could never know the truth. Liam liked routine. He liked knowing what to expect and having the answers and being in control. He had his own little, controlled world. And being told that his roommate had been irrevocably in love with him for four years would most certainly disrupt that world. He’d bolt, and then Louis would’ve lost him, and Louis couldn’t bear that. 

 

He was lucky that he was even allowed to be in Liam’s world. To be the singular, lonely moon orbiting around Liam’s glorious, life bringing planet. Louis couldn’t risk becoming a comet, couldn’t risk hurtling toward the earth and damaging it beyond repair. Louis loved his planet too much for that. 

 

Because he did love Liam, he did. He’d been utterly charmed by him when they’d first met in university. He could remember their first meeting so clearly, like it’d happened yesterday, and not four whole years before. It’d been a cold autumnal day, and Louis had an early morning class, which he couldn’t even remember the name of. He’d partied a bit too much the night before and was in desperate need of caffeine to keep him from committing mass homicide against humanity. 

 

On his walk to his class, Louis passed a tiny coffee shop on campus. He’d never been in: the place was dominated by white girls and/or medical students who literally had no lives because they stayed up all night studying. Not Louis’ type of crowd, really. But he’d gone in that day, because the prospect of coffee was just too great. He’d placed his order after waiting in a huge ass line, and then went to sit at one of the stools by the high counter top. He’d hopped out on one at the left end, annoyed that his feet didn’t fucking touch the ground. He was almost nineteen, for Christ’ sakes. 

 

As he waited, he people watched. This had always been a favorite pastime of Louis’. You never knew what odd quirk or trait about a person would spawn a poem, or a character, or even a whole plotline. So Louis looked around himself, trying to get inspired. 

 

There were a bunch of “hipster” girls, all wearing flower crowns and taking pictures of their drinks to post to Instagram and basically, being far too perky for 7:30 AM. There was an odd looking creature in the farthest corner of the coffee shop, dressed all in black and their hair done up in a spiked rainbow colored mohawk. And then, sitting on the stool on the right end of the countertop, sat a boy, poring over a huge textbook. His curly brown mop was bowed down over it, and Louis wondered if his nose was touching the page of the book. Was the information easier to absorb the closer you got to it? (Louis wouldn’t know, considering he rarely ever cracked a book open and studied.)

 

He was definitely a medical student, oh Lord. He was probably hoping that Louis choked on a stirring straw and he got to perform the Heimlich Maneuver on him. 

 

The barista had put two drinks in the middle of the countertop. Louis heaved himself up and grabbed the one closer to his side of the counter, assuming it was his. Mr. Medical looked up from his books at the sound and then slid out of chair, walking slowly over to the remaining cup. Louis was sitting back in his seat already, and he’d stopped paying attention. This guy wasn’t interesting: Louis certainly wouldn’t be basing any writing off _him._

 

But then, Louis heard a choking sound coming from his right and he looked back over. Brunette Curls was coughing in his elbow, looking alarmed. And unfortunately, Louis’ first thought was _Fuck! I don’t know the Heimlich, for fuck’s sake! I’m not saving him!_

 

But then he was clearing his throat, the moment passing. And he was getting redder and redder with each passing second, clearly embarrassed by what had just happened. 

 

“Well, that’s certainly not tea with milk and sugar!” he’d sputtered, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. Louis had just stared at him before bursting out laughing at his horrified expression, trying to hide his chortles behind his hand. He had looked so ridiculous, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline, and his mouth was puckered like a baby tasting lemon for the first time. 

 

He’d looked adorable, really. Louis couldn’t stop smiling. He really wanted to be able to stop smiling at this kid. He must’ve looked like maniac. 

 

“Sorry, mate. I take my coffee as bitter as my soul.” he said apologetically, still chuckling. 

 

The boy had laughed too, suddenly and shortly. It was a burst of beautiful noise that had surprised them both, Louis because he knew that his joke wasn’t _that_ funny, and the boy, because he didn’t laugh much those first few months of university, Louis would later learn. 

“I’m the one that should be sorry.” Curly McCurlyTop had said ruefully, looking at the coffee clutched in his hand. “I’ve ruined your drink.”

“Ah, no, mate, you’ve only taken a sip.” Louis replied consolingly, taking the styrofoam cup from his hand and swapping it with the tea in his own. 

“But- all the germs.” the boy protested mildly. “It’s not healthy- I’ll buy you another- please don’t-”

 

His words died as Louis took a long gulp of the coffee, wincing slightly at the bitter taste. The stranger was staring at him with curious brown eyes, and Louis quirked his mouth into another smile, already knowing he hadn’t a hope. 

 

Louis could feel the butterflies beginning to stir, deep in the pit of his stomach. This boy seemed- sweet, with his big brown eyes, like a goddamn Labrador. Louis liked his smile a whole bunch too. It was soft and hesitant, like it didn’t appear much. But it was stunningly beautiful, when it did. Louis liked this boy, with his textbooks and neatly pressed pants and curls that swept across his forehead like a wave. Louis had never been attracted to sweet. He’d never envisioned himself with a “namby pamby” guy who offered to buy somebody a new coffee, because he'd taken a singular sip. 

 

But in that coffee shop, Louis thought that maybe, just maybe, he could be. 

 

That day, Louis didn’t even wind up going to the class he’d woken up early to go to. He sat at the counter, now in the stool next to the boy. He’d tugged his textbook away and then got him talking. Honestly, Louis couldn’t remember much of what he said, being too distracted by how his eyes shone and how he bit down on his bottom lip when he was thinking or how he talked with his hands, flapping them around like birds. 

 

But he left that coffee shop that day knowing a couple things. He knew that the boy’s name was Liam, that he was in fact a medical student, and that Louis was half in love with him already. 

 

And here they are, four years later, in essentially the same position they'd been in that day in the coffee shop: Liam is the dopey yet brilliant doctor, driven and focused and caring. And Louis is the arrogant writer harboring a secret crush. Sure, things had changed: jobs, houses, haircuts (Louis is still in mourning over the loss of Liam's curls, chopped away for a "more professional look.") But they, Liam and Louis, are the same. Two boys facing the world with only each other to lean on, only each other to love. 

 

They finish eating, setting their plates down on the coffee table. Liam leans against the arm of the sofa, bunching his knees up. Louis tugs his legs down so he's stretched up flat, working his way between Liam's body and the back of the couch. He clings to Liam's body like a koala, hoping he'll open his arms. Always obliging, Liam wraps an arm around his waist, pressing his face into Louis' hair. 

"Did you write anything today?" he murmurs, reaching over to the table with his other hand and grabbing the remote, switching the television on. The mindless noise of BBC News fills the room, drowning out the beating of Liam's heart, pressed against Louis' ear. This was routine for them, watching the news. Liam liked to know what was happening, liked to know what disasters were occurring, and Louis liked to keep Liam calm. 

"No, no inspiration." Louis mumbles back, his voice soft. "I slept from ten till seven, because I'm a piece of shit." 

Liam tuts, shaking his head. He looks down at Louis, his eyes soft and gentle. He rubs little circles onto Louis' spine, finding the tense pressure points. He's always healing, always minding, always caring for Louis, even when he doesn't deserve it. 

"You're not a piece of shit, Lou. You've just got writer's block. You'll get it back: you always do. Maybe something just needs to happen for you to do so." 

"What would that be?" Louis sighs, pressing his face into Liam's chest and discreetly inhaling. He doesn't smell like a hospital anymore: he smells like Liam. Like lavender shampoo and Old Spice cologne and somehow, pine needles. 

 

"Maybe you just need to fall in love." Liam whispers as he drops off into sleep, worn out from his work day at the hospital. Louis wants to shake him awake again, wants to leap up on that couch, throw his head back and scream to the heavens, 

 

_"I ALREADY AM. I HAVE BEEN FOR FOUR WHOLE YEARS. I WROTE A BOOK OF POEMS ABOUT IT, ABOUT YOU, DENSE DINGBAT."_

 

Louis wants to grab Liam by the shirt and shake him until he understands, until he’s carrying some of this heavy weight that’s been bearing down on Louis’ chest. He wants to lean over the sleeping boy and kiss him until he wakes up. Maybe then Liam would get the message. But Louis doubts it. Liam, trustful to a fault, would think Louis had fallen asleep too and their mouths had conveniently slotted together. 

 

So Louis just sits there, curled up around Liam’s sleeping form, the words he will never let himself say dying in his throat. 

 

Eventually though, he moves. He can’t just waste the evening away, lying there and watching Liam sleep: he’s not Edward Cullen. After sleeping through the entire day, Louis is now bursting with energy, leading into the night. Ah, the wonderful life of a mild insomniac. 

 

But Louis doesn’t care, not really. He perfers the night: you might even go as far and say he’s a creature of it. It’s so much easier than the daytime. By the light of the sun, you’re expected to be conventional and go about your day. You go to work when it rises, stay inside during the nicest hours, and then come home again, just as it’s saying goodbye. It always leaves Louis with a sense of dissatisfaction. 

 

By the light of the moon, he’s free. He can watch the moon rise and set, if he pleases. He could go through the nighttime streets of London, meeting enough passerby to inspire a million stories. He could even sleep, if he wants, because he knows the moon would still be there. 

 

Louis eases himself off the couch, careful to not disturb the sleeping Liam. He grabs the spare blanket hanging off the back of the couch, laying it across Liam's body. Louis would eventually move him to his own bed when he got back home, because he has first hand experience of the back pain from sleeping on their uncomfortable sofa. He flicks off the light and takes down his ratty denim jacket from where it's hanging on the coat rack. On a whim, he grabs the orange scarf Liam had been wearing earlier, wrapping it around his own neck. 

 

Louis considers leaving Liam a note for when he wakes up, but then decides against it. More likely than not, Louis would be back before Liam stirs in his sleep, so why worry him unnecessarily? He worries enough as it is. Going to the front door, he opens it and then looks back over his shoulder, a soft smile curling across his face. Liam's zonked out. 

"See you soon, Li Li. I'm off to get inspired." he whispers, closing the door behind quietly and making sure it's locked tight. "Or maybe just hammered, worse than last night. But let's go with inspired." 

 

Louis walks through the nighttime streets of London, his shoulders bowed over against the wind. It's snowing a bit, small flakes that whip around his face and leave him shivering. There's nobody else on the footpaths, and Louis laughs slightly to himself. He's the only person mad enough to be out on this fucking freezing January night. Louis can accept the fact that he is, quite literally, a walking cliche: a tortured poet, scorned in love, complete with a tragic backstory he refuses to speak about. (Though Liam probably has the most tragic of backstories, if Louis is being honest). 

 

Louis stops under a streetlight, lifting his head up to the sky and letting the snowflakes coat his face. He feels the bitter sting of cold air blow across his skin, the snow melting on his lips and eyelashes. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. His fingers fumbling from the cold, he hurriedly lights one and brings it to his lips, inhaling deeply. The nicotine hits him instantly, steadying the trembling of his hands and the rapid thudding of his heart. 

 

Louis can only smoke out of the house, because Liam abhors it. He can't stand to see Louis smoking, because "Louis, there are 200 _known_ poisons in cigarettes. Do you think emphysema is fun, Louis? Or heart failure? What about lung cancer?" It's the only thing they ever fight over, really. 

 

Louis has been trying to quit, he really has. He hasn't smoked all week, which was probably a record for him. He likes to make Liam happy, and every day without a cigarette seems to do that. He's desperate for it now though. He takes another long draw, holding the smoke behind his teeth and then letting it billow out into the freezing air. 

 

Liam will never understand an addiction. He can't understand the craving for it, the way you feel like you're going to die unless you get a hit. How you can't control your shaking until you get one. Where Liam restrict, Louis indulges. They're a proper ying-yang, really. 

 

Louis' addicted to a lot of things: good books, _Downton Abbey_ , writing (if he could do it), Ingrid Michaelson, and smoking are just a few. None of which are really going to kill him. Well, the smoking might, but he's got a strong constitution, he hails from good Yorkshire stock, so Louis will take his chances. 

 

Really, the only addiction that consistently hurts Louis is his addiction to Liam Payne. He'd quit if he could. His life would certainly be simpler if he did. 

 

But he can't. 

Louis can't, and it hurts, and the burn in his lungs from the smoke makes him forget about that pain. So he stays under the street light, smoking and trying to forget, until the moon is sinking behind the horizon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I declare after all, there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library."_ -Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice.

The following morning, Louis is in the shower, washing away the last few days of alcohol, cigarettes and general bad hygiene, and he is belting out Ingrid Michaelson. 

_"All the broken hearts in the world still beat,_ " Louis sings as he shampoos his hair, the water pulsing against his shoulders. _"Let's not make it harder than it has to be._

Louis bows his head to the water, scrubbing out the suds with blunt fingernails. He grabs body wash and squirts some into his palm, rubbing it up and down his chest and stomach.   
_"Oh, oh, oh, it's all the same thing. Girls chase boys, chase girls."_

It's a ritual for Louis: singing Ingrid in the shower. Or singing Ingrid anywhere, really. He's loved her since he was sixteen, after he'd been heartbroken over the first boy that he thought mattered. Perusing Youtube while crying, he'd stumbled upon some lyric videos. Then, he found official music videos, and it was all downhill from there. 

Louis fell in love with Ingrid Michaelson's music. She was just enough anger, just enough rage for him. Just enough beauty. Just enough rhythm. Her lyrics gave him chills, no matter how many times he heard them. As a writer, Louis knew the skill that that took, to get a physical reaction from mere words. 

She was just enough poet. 

_"I got two hands, one beating heart, and I'll be alright. I'll be alright."_ Louis belts the biggest note of the song, throwing his head back and almost slipping on the slick shower floor. He decides that maybe he should get out before he breaks something, (most likely himself) so he turns the shower head off and clambers out, hurriedly grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist. 

Flicking his soaking wet hair out of his eyes, Louis turns the handle of the bathroom door and steps out. Only to come, quite literally, chest to chest with Liam Payne.   
"Oh, hello there." he says in mild surprise, a gentle smile on his lips. "Quite liked your performance, though I wish you'd change the songs up a bit."   
"Piss off." Louis mumbles, his cheeks burning at the thought of Liam hearing him sing. "Ingrid understands me in a way nobody else does." 

Liam reaches down and wipes away a droplet of water from Louis' collarbone with his thumb. Louis only sorta, kinda, maybe, definitely wants to die. He's dripping wet, in front of the man he's loved and _lusted_ after for years. He doesn't understand why this is happening. What had he done wrong to deserve such karma?

Liam still hasn't moved, seeming content to observe Louis in his state of undress. He doesn't seem even mildly flustered. Louis doesn't know if that's a serious blow to his self esteem or simply a result of Liam being a doctor and seeing people in their kip all the time. 

He hopes it's the latter. 

"Do you need the shower or?" Louis asks uneasily, holding his towel in one clenched fist and fiddling with his damp fringe with the other.   
"Ah, no." Liam says. "I need you for something." 

_Jesus Christ._

"Yeah, anything, mate." Louis replies, his heart hammering against his ribs. "What is it?"   
"I need to review the bones today. And the regions of the body. I've the whole morning off, so I thought I'd get some studying for my intern exam done. I don't have a model skeleton at home, and it's much easier to study that way-" Liam says, his eyes focused.   
"Isn't that test nine months away?"   
"Yeah- but you can never be too prepared, in my opinion." 

Louis stifles a sigh. Liam has nine whole months to prepare for this test. That's time enough to conceive a baby and carry it to a full term pregnancy. Liam also gets mornings off maybe once every million years, and he's choosing to study during this precious time. Even if he for some unknown reason failed the intern exam, he could repeat the year and then take it again. Except he's Liam, and failure isn't an option to him. 

"Right." Louis says, side stepping Liam. "Just- lemme go get dressed and then I'll meet you in the sitting room."   
"Louis, you're a lifesaver." Liam replies with a sunny beam in his direction.   
"No, no, I'm pretty sure that's you, Payno." Louis mumbles, trying to hide the shake in his voice as he bolts out of there. He finds refuge in his room, closing the door behind him and leaning against it, blowing out an uneven breath. Going over to his chest of drawers, he grabs a pair of sweatpants and a grungy Rolling Stones t-shirt.   
"You can do this, Tommo." Louis says firmly to his reflection as he shoves a gray beanie on his head, covering his wet hair. "You are a strong, grown up man.You will not falter." 

Slipping his feet into a pair of slippers, Louis shrugs a hoodie on and then goes out of the room. Walking into the sitting room, he sees Liam sitting patiently on their couch, his textbook on his knee.   
"Okay, what're we up to?" Louis asks, rubbing his hands together to warm them. Liam stands up, tucking the book under his arm and putting a warm hand on Louis' shoulder. He gives a tiny smile, a dimple appearing in the groove of his cheek.   
"You're gonna have to get onto the ground." 

_This is literally like a bad, low budget porno. "Bad Student Gets Fucked By Teacher."_

Louis compliantly kneels down on the ground, laying out flat on his back. Liam sits on the floor beside him, leaning the textbook against Louis' leg. He peers at him curiously, tilting his head to the side and studying Louis.   
"Okay, so the regions of the body are various, starting with the cranium-" Liam begins, his hands reaching over to touching the top of Louis' skull. Louis quickly tunes it out, choosing to focus on the warmth of Liam's hands on his body and how to even his breathing. He shuts his eyes, listening to the quiet baritone of Liam's voice and the rustling of textbook pages. It's oddly relaxing, sorta like getting a massage. A strange medical massage, with scientific terms instead of sounds of the ocean as backround noise, but still nice.

Louis is actually half asleep when Liam's hand presses against his groin. 

Louis tenses up automatically, hissing in a breath. His eyes fly open and he angles his head up to look at Liam, who is staring at him with wide, scared eyes.   
"Are you alright?" he says hurriedly, snatching his hand away. "Did I hurt you somehow? I was just trying to locate the regions of your abdominal area, oh goodness gracious."   
"Li Li, it's fine." Louis jumps in quickly, recovering himself. "I'm totally fine. You just- surprised me, is all. Carry on."   
"Here, this might be better. Easier assess for me, so I don't hurt you or something." 

And with that, Liam straightens so he's kneeling, and then swings one leg over Louis' waist. Settling so he is _straddling_ Louis' hips, Liam picks up the textbook and rests it on Louis' chest. Smiling down at him, Liam smooths Louis' rumpled shirt down, his fingers grazing the skin of his hips.   
"Better?" he asks. 

_Oh no, this is so much worse. Infinitely worse._

Liam is sitting ontop of Louis. His warm body weight is pressed against the most sensitive part of Louis' body: i.e his fucking dick. Louis could lean up and kiss him and this would become the plot line of a bad porno. Part of him considers it, to end this suffering and just do it, but he can't. Because he's not sure. 

It's just always been a thing, between them. It's been a thing since the night Louis walked down into the basement of some uni party and saw Liam snogging some boy. It hadn't progressed any further than that, Liam and the boy breaking away from each after about ten minutes. But it was just that fact that it had been a boy. See, Liam had never come out of the closet to Louis, who in turn had told him of his sexual preference within days of knowing him. It was always unspoken, because Liam didn't do long- term relationships. He preferred to find pretty boys at parties to make out with to blow off steam and to never put a label on anything. 

Louis sometimes wonders if he would've been better off that way: if he'd been a pretty face Liam blatantly used to relieve his own anxieties about life and then never seen him again. If he hadn't become Liam's friend and then consequently fallen head over heels in love with him, would Louis be happier?

Looking up into Liam's smiling face, Louis doesn't think so. 

"Yeah, M'fine." Louis manages, sticking his tongue out at Liam. "Get on with it."   
"Okay, so, let's start the bones now." Liam says, flipping the pages of the book to what, Louis presumes, is the bones section. He shifts his knees upward, so his weight is even more firmly centered on Louis' waist and he stifles a groan. Was he doing this on purpose? Like, Liam is innocent, but not _that_ innocent He certainly isn't a virgin. And he definitely knows enough about human anatomy, particularly the male sexual organs, to know that Louis might be struggling a tad. 

"So, there are 206 bones in the adult skeleton." Liam says, gripping whatever bone is in Louis' thigh. 

_Yeah, and I'm about to have 207 if you do that again, Liam goddamn Payne._

"There are four kinds of bones: Long, short, flat, and irregular." Liam continues, his fingers tapping against Louis's ribs. They dance over his chest, pausing to feel the beat of his heart. 

Liam looks so fucking beautiful right now. He's all bed head and sleepy eyes and soft smiles. He looks like a ray of weak sunshine peeking through a curtain, early in the winter morning. It would be easy, almost too simple, to just lean up and capture Liam's mouth with his own. Maybe then they could become what they were meant to be: just two kissing boys. 

But- Louis can't confess. That would be mental. It would destroy everything Louis had worked so hard to build with him. Liam doesn't get close to people easily. He builds up walls around his heart and won't let anyone knock them down. He has his reasons for this, and they are very good reasons, Louis knows that. Liam doesn't let himself get close to people because he can't bear to lose them. 

But the words are still walloping against Louis's throat, trying to worm their way out. He knows that if he stays, laying there with Liam ontop of him, he'll blurt it out or do something he'll regret and ruin everything. 

Louis has a knack for ruining everything, but he can't ruin this. 

"Library." he stammers, wriggling out from underneath Liam and and sitting up, wrapping his arms around his stomach self consciously. "Let's go to the library. There's like a- a science section there, yeah? I'm sure they've got a proper skeleton. Like, just bones and shit, no annoying flesh or organs or anything."   
"Oh." Liam says, sounding sorta surprised. "Yeah! Yeah, that's a great idea, Lou." 

Louis laughs a bit hysterically, standing up and giving Liam his hand, hauling him up beside him. He dusts himself off, feeling his hands shaking against his body. He pulls off his beanie and runs a trembling hand through his fluffy hair, twisting it around his fingers to ground himself.   
"Just- uh- lemme get proper shoes. Can't go out in public in my bunny slippers, can I?" 

_Cool it, Tommo, cool it._

 

Louis is definitely cooled on their walk to the London Library. It's a blustery winter day, the freshly fallen snow still pure white, not soiled gray by the city smog and car exhaust. Louis and Liam walk side by side, shoving their way through crowds of pedestrians. Louis shivers as a cold wind blows, scrunching his shoulders up to his neck. He hears a chatter of different accents and languages all around him: a side effect of the constant tourist presence in London. 

Louis loves this city. At first, when he originally moved here, it terrified him. He was an eighteen year old kid, who'd escaped from his hometown as quick as possible and gone to the first school that accepted him. But slowly, it had become home. He knows all the nooks and crannies, all the little byways that nobody notices. Louis was a wanderer, he wanted to get lost, and he'd found the perfect city to get lost in. 

Liam grips the pocket of Louis' jacket, pulling him closer so they don't get separated. He looks down at Louis, noticing how his teeth are chattering together. He reaches over and zips Louis's jacket up all the way to his neck, his warm fingers brushing the numb skin of Louis' chin.   
"You alright, Lou?" he asks worriedly. "Wanna stop and get hot chocolate from a stand or something?"   
"Nah." Louis says firmly. "Let's just get there: you've only got a couple more hours til work, right?"   
Liam says nothing, putting an arm around Louis' body and pulling him into his side, rubbing his spare hand up and down Louis' arm.   
"What're you doing?" Louis asks, still shivering.   
"Blood flow." Liam answers simply, as if this means anything to Louis.   
"Right then." 

They walk at the same pace, waddling together like penguins. Louis grits his teeth, tugging his beanie lower down over his ears. Liam looks down at him with a soft smile, eyes shining. But he's still alert, looking at the icy road beside them every so often. Nobody hates snowstorms more than Liam. 

After about ten minutes of brisk walking from Liam's end and dragging steps from Louis', they reach the London Library. As they walk onto the sweeping ground of the library, Louis feels his breath hitch in his throat. He doesn't think he'll ever stop being impressed by this building. The first time he'd seen it, his English major heart had almost wept, because the place was just so damn beautiful. 

The building is all white marble, standing tall and proud in the middle of the London streets. Window panes glint in the weak sunlight, guarding the inside of the building from the outside world. Ivory turrets twist along the building, leading along the handrails. The steps are well-worn, but still well cared for: clean, with no graffiti. The main door is oak wood, with the words "London Library" inscribed in faded gold letters across the top of the door frame. As they walk up to the door, and Liam holds it open for Louis, he reaches up on his tip toes and brushes the lettering with his fingers, the warmth of the wood bleeding into his skin. Shivers run through him, not from the cold this time. How many people had passed through this door? How many stories did its walls contain? 

God, Louis loves this library. He loves old things, particularly old English architecture, and the London Library was the epitome of that. In Louis' head, he'd always thought of it as the Pemberly of London. All it needed was some horses and maybe a lake and definitely a handsome, mysterious stranger. 

Liam put a warm hand on Louis' hip, gently but firmly guiding him into the building. He knows that Louis would stay outside admiring the library for hours if he was allowed. He smiles down at Louis genially, shutting the heavy wooden behind him and then brushing snow off the shoulders of Louis' jacket. And okay, maybe it doesn't need a handsome, mysterious stranger at all. Maybe all it needs is a kind young man. 

"Where's the science section in here again?" Liam asks, his voice hushed as they quietly scrape off the bottoms of their snowy shoes against a mat. Louis turns around, his eyes narrowed. There must be a map somewhere in here. How would anyone be expected to navigate this place without one? It's an utter labyrinth, like the one from Greek Mythology that Louis was forced to read in uni. Hopefully there's no Minotaur waiting in the middle of this maze.   
"There," Louis says, pointing to the map hanging on the wall to their left. They walk over to it, Louis having to use Liam's shoulder to balance on so he can see. (Liam's always at him to wear his glasses more, but he just can't bring himself to cover his eyes. Really, they were a gift to humanity.)   
"Section 3C." Liam says cheerily, tapping his index finger against the tiny letters. "Medical Science. That's the ticket."   
"Good luck finding it." Louis jokes, his eyes travelling over the never ending shelves of books. What a perfect place to get lost in.   
"I'll meet you back here in- let's say an hour and a half?" Liam says. "That should give me enough time to get to work."   
"Yeah, yeah, perfect." Louis replied absentmindedly, running his fingers down the spine of the book closest to him. Liam stifles a laugh and reaches over to ruffle his damp hair affectionately.   
"I can see you're already off in Louis Literary Land. See you soon." 

Louis gives a tiny nod as Liam walks away. He sighs slightly, shutting his eyes as the tranquility of the library washed over him. Alll he can hear is the quiet rustle of pages and the cajoling whispering of books, begging to be opened. There was just something about the stillness of libraries that had always calmed Louis. His escape as a teenager had been his local library. All the other distractions of his life were silenced there, all the bullshit that made Louis want to cry and scream and run away   
ceased to exist for a few hours. All that existed was Harry Potter, or Eragon, or Percy Jackson. And then, when he was seventeen and discovered poetry, all that existed was Neruda, or Whitman, or The Bard himself. 

The only thing that had ever saved Louis was words, and he thinks they're the only thing that ever will. 

Louis saunters through the many halls of the London Library, not really caring where he ends up. The place is huge, Louis has never been able to navigate its various rooms, so why start now? There must be a million books in here. The shelves are weighed down with countless books, and some are even stacked on the narrow aisles. There's ladder next to the shelves, because the only way to reach the uppermost books would be to climb it. Louis keeps walking, admiring the interior of the library and dancing his fingertips along the book spines as he goes. 

Crossing a hallway, he goes through a door and finds himself in a wide circular room, full of weak winter light coming in from the glass above the heads, cut in a circle to let the sun in at high noon. Shelves of books line the walls, leading down to the centre of the room where tables are neatly arranged. Louis sees a skeleton standing next to one of the tables, and then he smiles. Because he can see Liam's brown mop, bowed over the table. It didn't take him long at all to sniff out the Science section. 

Louis could go and sit beside him, but then decides not to. He'd just be distracting, because he can't keep his mouth shut when he's around Liam. He always wants to make him laugh, and right now, Liam needs to focus, so Louis keeps walking. Treading softly on the plushy carpet beneath his feet, he leaves the circular room, bookmarking it in his head to find again. Knowing Liam, he'd get wrapped up in what he was studying, and forget the time, so Louis would have to find him so he could get to his shift before it began. 

Going down the corridor to his left, Louis passes more shelves of books, going up to the very ceiling of the room. The floor beneath his feet has changed to hardwood, so now his footfalls are loud in the quiet library: steady thumps that echo against the stillness. There's no windows in whatever part of the library he's in right now, so the only light is from dim lamps above his head. There's tiny chandeliers in every aisle: pretty gold things that shine like nighttime stars. 

Louis almost slips on a rug on the floor, gripping the plank of a shelf. He pauses by a random green velvet armchair, tucked against the wall and the shelves. Louis breathes in deeply, smelling old paper, ink and dust, and a slow smile creeps across his face. He's never wandered into this part of the library before, but he already loves it. Looking above him for any sign that could tell him what section he's in, he finds none. Which is even better, because now it's a mystery. And the only way to figure it out now is to look at the books. 

Louis looks at the books on his left, half hidden by the armchair, turning on his heels so they're directly in front of him. Louis gingerly touches a book with a faded red cover, slipping it out of its place in the shelf. Holding it in both hands, he looks at the front cover, wondering if it's title will give any clue as to where he is. 

Little Dorrit, by Charles Dickens. Nice one, not Louis' favourite by good ol' Charlie, but still, a nice one. With a soft smile, Louis lovingly pats the hardback cover of the book before sliding it back in its place. So maybe he's somewhere in Classics? But he could've sworn he'd been in the Classical section before, and it wasn't anything like this. Maybe they'd been moved since the last time he was here. 

Taking out the next book he sees, a slim one with a light blue dust jacket, Louis reads the title and then frowns in confusion, because no, that doesn't make sense. He's holding The Notebook, and Louis wouldn't necessarily call that a classic. Not yet, anyways.   
"What?" Louis says, almost to the book in his hands. "Where even am I? What are you? Is this just a dumping ground for books that don't fit anywhere else?" 

Obviously, nobody answers him. With annoyed huff, Louis still takes care to put the book back in its proper place. He considers the shelves for a few moments and then put his fingers on the largest book in front of him. It looks like a classic, but the way this has been going, it'll be The Bible. Which could be considered a classic, Louis supposes. He wouldn't really know, considering he hasn't opened a bible since primary school. 

He pulls the heavy hardback out from the shelves, hefting it up in his small hand. Resting it against his stomach, he wraps an arm around himself to keep it in place. Louis looks up, flicking his now fluffy fringe out of his eyes. And then, between the open space between the books and the slats of the shelves, he sees two curious green eyes watching him. 

Louis gasps in shock, losing his grip on the book in his hand and dropping it. It falls to the floor with a loud thud, right on Louis' foot. Pain shoots through Louis' toes and he holds back a groan.   
"Fuck- sorry- oops." he stammers, vaulting down to pick up the book, hurriedly checking it's spine for damage. He snaps his head back up, and those eyes are still watching him, glinting with suppressed amusement. Louis blinks a few times, his mouth hanging open. 

All he can see is this person's eyes: emerald green and shining in the soft light of the library. They're wide and heavy lidded, framed by light eyelashes and delicate brown eyebrows. And all their attention is focused solely on Louis, like he is suddenly very, very important.   
"Sorry about that." Louis says loudly, clearing his throat. "I didn't mean to drop the book, but it's alright, no damage or anything, so-" 

The person, Louis assumes he's a librarian, accepts this with a nod, eyes shifting up and down. Louis takes a shallow breath, debating on whether to put the book back on the shelf and close the gap. But this guy (Louis thinks it's a guy, he isn't quite sure) still hasn't spoken and would it be rude to just cut off this half-assed conversation?   
"I was just- trying to figure out what section of the library I'm in by looking at the titles of some books, but they seem kinda arbitrary." Louis continues with a limp smile. "So, I- I uh- I won't do it again, yeah? Who knows if I'll ever stumble across this section of the library again, since it seems kinda hard to find." 

The stranger gives a tiny laugh, the only sound Louis has heard him make yet. It's not even a laugh really, more of a scoff, and Louis briefly wonders if this person is making fun of him. He bristles at the thought, because this library is fucking enormous, not all of them are privileged enough to work in a place like that, and this random corner is out of the way. But then Louis deflates again, because honestly, it doesn't matter, he doesn't give a shit if this snooty librarian thinks he's an idiot, since they'll never clap eyes on each other again. 

"Right, well, I'm gonna go." Louis says sharply, sliding the book back into its place. "Nice talking to ya."   
Louis whirls on his heels, disgruntled by the conversation that'd he just had with basically himself. Louis spent enough time talking to himself, dammit. He gives himself a shake, going to find Liam. He figures enough time had passed, Liam has probably gotten enough studying done, and it is definitely time to get out of here. 

But Louis has never left the library feeling annoyed before, so he does his best to cheer up. He walks quickly through the halls, trying to find Liam. He spies the doorway he came through and goes back out through it, popping out in the circular science room. He sees Liam still sitting at the table, and knows he hasn't moved an inch in all this time. He walks over to him, stooping down and snatching the textbook from his hands playfully, trying to arrange his features into some kind of smile.   
"Leyum." he sing songs as the other boy looks up at him, his eyes dazed and far away. Doctor Mode. "Work time." 

Liam's face falls suddenly, and he rests his chin on his palm, sighing heavily. Louis stiffens, reaching over and patting him on the shoulder comfortingly.   
"Don't wanna go." Liam mumbles, his voice muffled by his hand. "M' tired, Lou. It's nice and quiet here, relaxing."   
"Don't go then." Loui replies. "Play truant for once, just don't go."   
"I have to go." Liam says sadly. "My attending would kill me if I didn't. It's just- it's just-"   
"Just what, Li?"   
"It's just really snowy." he whispers. "I don't like the snow."   
"I know you don't, Liam." Louis answers carefully. "But it's not so bad out, and I think it's lightened up since we've been in here and I'll walk there with you, yeah? And you tell me when your shift ends, and I'll be there waiting for you, and then we'll go home and we'll watch some trashy reality TV and make fun of Kim Kardashian." 

Liam smiles softly, and Louis feels the stress slowly ebb out of them both. He's not going to Doctor Mode just yet. If Louis had his way, he wouldn't go to Doctor Mode ever. Louis claps him on the shoulder, and Liam slowly rises to his feet, rousing himself.   
"I'm sorry you've gotta walk all the way to the hospital, I'll make it up to you-" Liam starts apologetically.   
"Don't worry about it Liam, please, you don't need to do that."   
"I want to though. We'll go out, make a night of it. We haven't done anything in ages, and it's probably becsuse of my job, so we're gonna have some fun." 

Warmth fills Louis from head to toe at those words. He knows it's not a date, knows it's not what he wants it to be, but still- the thought of just him and Liam going out together makes him happy in a way he can't really describe. Liam reaches into his pocket, pulling out a rumpled flyer. He passes it to Louis and then says,   
"This was hanging up on a bulletin board in here. It's some band at a local pub, The Fiddler. They're not like- famous or anything, just a local group. They might be shit, but it could be a good time, I dunno. It's next Saturday evening, and I'm not on call then so, if you wanted to go-"   
"I'd love to go." Louis says quickly. (Liam could've suggested getting shot into the earth's atmosphere without a a space suit, and Louis would probably love to go.)

"This flyer thing says free beer, so obviously, I'm all for it."   
Liam smiles hesitantly, looking a bit nervous already. Pub scenes aren't really his thing, Louis knows that. He finds them rowdy and dangerous, and then doesn't enjoy himself because he's stressed out. But he's willing to put himself out there so Louis could have a good time, and that kinda makes Louis want to cry. 

But instead, he beams right back at Liam, putting an arm around his waist and guiding him forward. He's got to get to work at some point today, so they'd better get moving. They leave the library together, Liam shutting the front door with a heavy thud and Louis not looking back behind him. 

All thoughts of the odd librarian hiding behind the shelves are out of Louis' head. He walks Liam to the hospital, waiting until he's inside before he leaves. He then heads back to their flat on foot, humming songs under his breath. He could get a taxi cab, but he decides not to. It's a lovely day and Louis loves walking and it's not even three miles of a distance. Louis ambles along in the snow, wrapped up in his own thoughts. And because he's thinking about Liam, what lovely thoughts they are. 

It isn't until Louis is home again, curled up underneath a blanket to try and warm up, that he remembers what happened at the library today. He sighs heavily, automatically put back into a bad mood.   
"S'not my responsibility to know what section of the library I'm in." Louis mutters to himself distemperedly, tugging the blanket up to his chin. "And what was he doing, hiding behind those books? Not doing his job, that's what. Trying to scare unknowing patrons of the library, probably. Idiot." 

Louis pauses mid-rant, remembering the shape and color of the libriarian's eyes, and the intelligent light that shone from them. They'd been quite enchanting, actually: reminding Louis of spring in the middle of winter.   
"Okay, maybe he's not an idiot." Louis amended. "Maybe he was meant to be there. But he's still probably a narcissistic little fucker, with eyes like that."


	3. Chapter 3

_"We do not look in great cities for our best morality_."- Jane Austen, Mansfield Park. 

 

Saturday night. The night Louis has been looking forward to all week. The night where Louis is gonna try to be a normal twenty-two year old and go to a pub and get drunk. And most importantly, the night of his sorta-not really-maybe date with Liam Payne. There’s a possibility, however slim, that things could change forever tonight. If the mood was right, if the perfect song was playing, if Louis could grow a goddamn set and swallow his fear...maybe things could change. 

 

So, naturally, Louis is freaking the fuck out. 

 

Liam is obviously at work, so Louis has the flat to himself. He took the most extensive shower of his life, probably racking up their water bill by a million percent. He found the shitty hair dryer beneath the bathroom sink and blew out his hair, shocking himself everytime he put the plug into the socket. And now he's running around the place in his briefs, trying to found the only pair of jeans he likes and his lucky Nirvana t-shirt. 

"Oh, damn it all to Hell!" Louis exclaims, bent over double in his hamper, digging through all the clothes. "These jeans make my ass look divine, so they're an absolute necessity, and the shirt is even more so, because it's lucky and I left home wearing that shirt, and if that wasn't the luckiest moment of my entire bloody life, I dunno what is." 

 

He finds the jeans wadded up at the bottom of the hamper, and kicks himself for not doing proper laundry. However, they're moderately clean and not _too_ wrinkled, so Louis is willing to take his chances because really, not wearing them would just be a disservice, to everyone involved. They might give him a rugged, "I don't give a fuck" kinda look, which might be useful, in this situation. Well, whatever look they're giving him, Louis somehow manages to wrangle his legs inside the jeans, jumping up and down to get the waistband over his hips. Really, it's not his legs that are the problem, but his arse. Skinny jeans are basically torture devices for Louis. 

 

Louis finds the shirt tucked away in the far corner of his cupboard. But it's neatly folded, so he's gonna assume he put it there for safekeeping and then promptly forgot all about it. Louis brings the faded purple shirt to his face, breathing in the familiar scent of it. No matter how long he's been gone and how many times he's washed the stupid thing, the shirt still smells like his childhood home. Like autumn leaves and too many candles and little sisters. 

 

Louis grits his teeth and flings the shirt over his torso, ignoring the rush of tears in his eyes and the sickened feeling swirling in the pit of his stomach. Doncaster is not a place he wants to think about, it's a place he wishes he could forget entirely. But not even five full years away from the place could wipe away all memory of it. He can't forget his sisters' smiling faces as he tucked them into bed, or the ancient library around the corner that he spent a majority of his teenage years in, hiding from his taunting peers, his hopeless mother, his enraged, alcoholic stepdad. Trying to run, trying to outdistance himself, trying to hide, from the one thing about himself that he knew he couldn't change, even at the age of sixteen. 

 

Louis rips the shirt off his body and throws it into the furthest corner. Too many unwanted memories are being dragged up, and who needs luck, anyway? Not Louis Tomlinson. 

 

Putting on a freshly ironed (thank you Liam) blue buttondown shirt that supposedly brings out the color of his eyes, Louis goes into the bathroom and rigorously brushes his teeth, almost drawing blood. He even flosses for probably the first time in his life, which hurts like a bitch. For no particular reason at all, Louis is suddenly very interested in his dental health. Maybe he'll use that money collecting in the bank to pay for dental school. He'd be like Liam, except with like- teeth. 

 

Louis is in the middle of rinsing his mouth with mouthwash for the third time when his phone starts vibrating in his jean's pocket. Reaching inside, he pulls out the mobile, pressing the "Answer" button without looking at the Caller ID, because it's probably just Liam, checking that Louis isn't asleep and that he's getting ready. 

" 'Ello?" he mumbles, his mouth full of foam. Leaning down, he spits into the sink and then wipes his mouth with a towel, waiting for an answer. 

"Louis?" 

 

Louis' insides turn to jelly as soon as he recognizes the voice. It's the voice that gently lulled him to sleep for the first years of his life, the voice that went weak when the divorce happened, the voice that never stuck up for Louis as a teenager. The voice that Louis still sometimes hears in his dreams and wakes up crying because of the sudden, devastating silence. 

 

"Mum." he says woodenly. "How'd you get this number?" 

"Lottie- Lottie gave it to me." she replies, taken aback by his harsh greeting. "She told me you gave it to her over Christmas, when the girls went up to visit you for your birthday?" 

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I told her to only use it for emergencies. And to not share it with anyone else." 

 

Stupid, _stupid_ Lottie. He’d warned her, explicitly, to not give his number to their mother. He didn’t want to talk to her, and he’d assumed she had the same feelings about the situation. They’d exchanged minimal contact over the five years he’d been gone from Doncaster, only speaking briefly on birthdays and Christmas. (Louis was forever thankful that his fell on the same day, it meant one less awkward conversation per year.) He called his sisters once a week though, to check up on them and make sure everything was alright. 

 

Over the years, he’d gotten good at hiding his true concerns about his sisters behind meaningless questions. It was either that, or Lottie, being the eldest and who normally answered the phone, understood that he couldn’t voice the real questions out loud and she knew how to answer them correctly. “How was school this week? Did you learn anything interesting?” meant “Are all your sisters and you going?” “What did you have for dinner tonight?” really meant “Have you been eating well and enough?” And most importantly, “You know that you can bring the girls up and visit me in London anytime you want, right?” really meant “I’ll come down and get you out of there as soon as you need me to.”

 

The thing is that Louis always feels like he’d failed them. Abandoned them. He’d gotten away and his sisters hadn’t. Granted, things had been far worse for Louis in Doncaster than they ever had been or ever would be for the girls, for various reasons. But he still feels guilty for choosing himself instead of them. 

 

He could’ve gone to community college, gotten a shit degree, then a shit job, and raised his sisters single-handedly, while his mother cried too much and tried to get his stepfather to put down the bottle. But Louis had read too many good books to sacrifice himself to that fate. Every writer knows that a hero doesn’t get his adventure until he leaves home. And at eighteen, with the burden of four younger sisters, a full English scholarship to a university in London, and a headful of words, begging to be set free, Louis was ready for his damn adventure. 

 

“How’re you, poppet?” Johanna asks timidly, her voice tinny and far away through the phone. “Things alright in London?”

“Yeah, they're fine, I’m fine.” Louis answers impatiently. He doesn’t have the time or the energy for this. 

 

_So, now that you feel like you’ve fulfilled your maternal obligation to me, may I hang up the phone?_ Louis thinks, _Especially because you never did this when I was a child and actually needed a mother._

 

They lapse in awkward silence for a few moments, the only sound being his mum's rattily breathing through the phone. Louis rolls his eyes and fights back a curse, because this is just so, painfully, typical of her. She'll try and connect with him in some way, because she's never going to accept the fact that their relationship is marred past the point of salvation. He feels no emotion toward her: In Louis' opinion, if his sisters didn't exist, he wouldn't have any family. 

 

"Do you need something, Mum?" he asks sharply. "Are the girls alright?" 

“Yeah, they’re all fine.” she responds, hurtling back to the defensive. That was always her way. She couldn’t stand that Louis obviously though she was a bad mother. And that wasn’t even the case. Louis doesn’t think Johanna is a bad mother, he thinks she isn’t a mother at all. 

 

She just- wasn’t all there sometimes. Unstable. She treated her kids, or at least Louis, more like her friends than her children. When Louis was seven, he remembers coming home from primary school and finding Lottie, who was a baby at the time, howling because she was so hungry. And then he’d walked into the sitting room and found his mother, crying too. She was holding a glass of red wine in a shaking hand, sobbing over her wedding photos. The disintegration of her marriage had ruined her, made her less of the fun, bubbly mum that Louis vaguely remembers from his earliest years, and turned her into the shell that she still continues to be. 

 

Things had gotten slightly better after she’d gotten remarried. Sure, it’d been weird to have a stepdad, especially because he never saw his actual one, but it’d been okay. Kevin, as Louis himself chose to call him (he never could manage “Dad”: the word always stuck in his throat.). He made Mummy smile again, and that made Louis happy. A few new babies were born, Louis had somebody to kick a football around in the garden with, and their house was filled with laughter. It’d been okay. More than okay. 

 

But then, as Louis had become a teenager, things took a drastic turn towards Not Okay. And Louis has never been able to forgive his mother for that. 

 

“They’re great, actually.” Johanna continues, clearing her throat. “Lottie’s singing in her school’s talent show next week. says she was inspired by you, since she remembers you in Grease, and all.”

“Dunno why she was inspired by that, it was kinda shit.”

“I was actually wondering if- if you’d like to come down and see her?” Johanna says, suddenly hopeful. “She’d really appreciate having her big brother there, and honestly, I would too- I haven’t been doing so well, lately-”

 

And no. Not his problem, not anymore. Not ever again. Her voice fading out as he loses interest,, Louis shifts his weight and glances at the clock hanging on the wall. He needs to shut her up, to end this conversation before it goes anywhere else he doesn’t want it to go. 

“I’m really, really swamped right now, Mum.” he interrupts. “Despite popular belief, the life of a writer is rather hectic, so I don’t think I’ll be able to make it. But tell Lottie good luck from me, and that I know she’ll be wonderful, give her a hug and a kiss or somethin’.”

“Alright, Louis.” she responds quietly, tiredly. And at that, Louis feels his conscience twinge him, because he’s not a totally deplorable person, emotions do get to him sometimes, and there’s a teeny, tiny part of him that would love to go back. To see Stan, his childhood best friend. To see his sisters and get to tuck them into bed like he used to, even though after five years, most of them probably don’t even need to be kissed goodnight. 

 

But he just- he just can’t. 

 

“Goodbye, Mum.” he quips, clenching his spare hand into a fist to stop himself from breaking. He feels like he’d spent his whole life breaking while living there, and it took getting away to piece himself together. He won’t let himself break again. No more disasters. 

 

“Goodbye...Boobear.” she says, her voice soft as she hangs up the phone first. Louis stands, frozen, staring at the screen in rage, because did she really just fucking say that? Her childhood nickname for him? Their own, private, _thing_? 

 

He’s surprised she even remembered it. 

 

Nobody else ever called him Boobear, it was only ever her. He doesn't even know where it came from, Johanna had started calling him that when he was a baby, for unknown reasons, and it'd stuck. She never explained it to him. The word would sound strange coming out of anyone else's mouth, because it used to be a term of pure, unadulterated love. Louis thinks nobody will ever love him as much as she did. 

 

Leaning weakly against the sink of the bathroom, Louis presses a shaking hand to his mouth and fights back tears as he thinks that maybe, she still does. 

 

 

The pub is fucking jammed. 

 

Hordes and hordes of inebriated twenty-something's are all crowded together in the tiny space of the bar. The Fiddler, although a good enterprise, is not a large one, and every person gets approximately half the amount of personal space that they really need. They're all packed in front of the small stage, probably to make the crowd appear larger and more raucous than it really is. Louis is pressed right into Liam's side, which is probably the safest place to be. The Fiddler is smokey and darkly-light, the tinted green lights casting shadows along the walls. It smells like alcohol and cigarettes and maybe some regret. 

 

Liam looks down at him and smiles, bright eyes studying their surroundings. Because he didn't have time to change after work, he's still wearing his scrubs, which are garnering more than their fair share of funny looks. His cheeks are rosy for what seems like the first time in months, tinged pink by laughter and excitement and alcohol. Basically, Liam's whole look tonight is endearing, and Louis feels his sorrow from earlier dissipating every time they make eye contact. 

 

He takes a sip of the beer in his hand, wincing slightly at the bitter taste. Louis is more of a _fruity drink complete with a pink umbrella_ kinda guy. Beer has never really been his thing, because it tastes too bad and doesn't even get him properly buzzed. But tonight, it's free, and even though now he's fairly prosperous, Louis still remembers what it was like to have bills piling up and no way to pay them. He can appreciate a bargain when he sees one. 

 

"Where do you think the band is?" Liam asks, his words already beginning to slur together. Liam, unlike Louis, is a total lightweight. He'd nearly just have to smell a beer to get drunk. Louis has brought him home, stumbling around and singing odd bits of songs from the early 2000's, more times than he can count. 

"Dunno." Louis responds, wiping away a bit of beer foam from his upper lip. This stuff is vile. Seriously, there's beer, and then there's the Fiddler's cheap, free beer. He'd definitely succumb and buy a mojito before this night is out. "Maybe they didn't show? Or maybe they broke up right before the gig was supposed to happen. Maybe a band member left for random reasons and then decided to go solo, which is totally unnecessary and extraordinarily hurtful-" 

"But apparently this band has been together since university, so I doubt that’d happen.”

“Well, if they’ve been together that long and haven’t progressed past playing at pubs like this fine institution, than I doubt they’re going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Be nice, Louis.” Liam says fondly. “Maybe they just haven’t hit their big break yet.” 

“What’re they even called, again?” Louis asks, interested despite himself. Music, of any variety, has always interested him, and he wants to get a feel for the performers that they’re gonna waste a couple hours listening to. 

“ The band is… _Nameless_ , I think?” Liam responds. “I dunno if that’s meant to be poetic or not, that’s your area of expertise-”

“Liam, it’s either a failed attempt at irony, and weak irony, at that. Or they were too lazy to come up with a proper name. And considering that it was a bunch of barely legal teenagers who formed this band, I’d say it’s the latter.”

 

Louis’ last words are drowned out by the sudden cheering of the crowd. The two guys are jostled from side to side as people get more frenzied. Maybe this band was more popular than they’d originally thought. Liam grabs Louis’s arm to keep him upright as a squealing girl elbows her way past him. Liam shoots her a distasteful look, rolling his eyes. 

“What’s the rush, dear?” Louis calls cheerily after her, not bothered by it. Apparently this band means something to her, and it certainly doesn't mean anything to him, so why shouldn’t she be in the front? He’s just trying to have a laugh. 

 

The girl turns back around, the light of the pub dancing across her various face piercings. She looks as Louis in shock, her makeup-heavy eyes widening. 

“Are you serious?” she sputters, seeming to be genuinely affronted. “Really, you don’t know?”

“Love, why would I ask, if I knew?” he replies with a wink. She blushes slightly, and Louis fights a small smirk as she flushes. He’d figured out around sixteen that winks are invaluable when getting people flustered. 

“It’s _him_.” she says, almost reverently, her tone hushed. “ _He’s_ about to be onstage. Trust me, after two minutes of seeing him perform, you’ll be pushing your way to the front too.”

With that, the girl continued her battle to the front, leaving Louis and Liam behind. They look at each other, surprise written across both their faces. 

“Well then.” Liam says, raising his eyebrows. “That was some great clarification. The amazing, wonderful _Him_.”

“I feel bad for the bloke, being named after a church song. He must’ve been ripped to shreds in school.”

 

It takes a few moments for Louis’ joke to click with Liam, but when it does, he laughs loud and he laughs long. He throws his head back and his eyes narrow to slits and it makes Louis feel like the sun, like the brightest star in the sky. Because even though the joke wasn’t that funny (it was pretty fucking terrible, actually), it made Liam laugh like he’d never once cried and that’s all Louis wants to do. 

 

The screams increase as the band comes onstage. It’s kinda anticlimactic, really, because all they do is walked from the back room and climb up a couple steps, until they’re raised a few meager feet above the crowd. From what Louis can see, which isn’t much because he’s rather short, the band is four guys, around his own age. One, a fiery red head that could be easily play Ronald Weasley in a second generation Harry Potter film, stands on the far left of the stage, guitar clutched in his hands. There’s a rugged dark haired guy wearing a snapback on the drums in the back. On stage right stands a petite-looking brunette. She vaguely reminds Louis of a pixie, with her slender limbs and wavy strawberry blonde hair. She’s got a mischievous kind of face, her mouth quirking up in a pretty smile. Louis feels like he’s seen her face somewhere before. 

 

So, the person centre stage must be the front man of Nameless, the elusive Him. Considering the hype that was just spewed at Louis about this guy, he’s honestly a little-unimpressed. Sure, he’s attractive enough, kinda in a boyish way. He’s built, but not overly so, leaning more to the skinny side. He’s wearing ripped jeans, scuffed sneakers, and a tight fitting, white tank top, despite the cold. Well, maybe he’s not as lean as Louis thought. The guy’s got some nice back muscles and biceps, he’d give him that. But really, the most striking thing about him is the bleached blonde mop of hair that sits atop his head. It’s got a life of its own, shaggy and unruly and swept across his forehead.

 

_It’s- it’s sex hair._ Louis thinks, cheeks reddening at the thought. _He looks like he’s been recently and thoroughly fucked._

 

Alright, maybe Louis sees what they’re talking about. Slightly. 

 

“How’re ye?” the front man asks simply, grabbing the mic and bringing it closer to him. At his voice, the shouts increase, because- because he’s probably got the sexiest Irish accent Louis has ever heard. It’s soft, lilting in all the right places and raspy in all the others. Louis glances at Liam, gauging his reaction to this band. Or, more accurately, his reaction to this guy. And at his face, Louis feels his heart sink, because Liam looks like he always does when he sees a boy that he wants to kiss. He’s flushed, looking slightly bashful and timid. His eyes are shiny, glassy, like he’s drunk off the mere thought. He looks beautiful. 

 

Louis bites his lip and forces himself to look away, because as much as he can pretend, he knows that look is not meant for him. 

 

“So, we’re Nameless.” the new ruination of Louis’ hopes continues. “The handsome ginger over on the bass guitar is Ed. I can confirm he doesn’t have a soul, because all of the songs he’s ever written make me wish I didn’t have one.”

 

Cue laughter. He’s a natural at this, all easy smiles and languid movements. Through all of this, he puts the crowd at ease, quieting them enough so he can introduce the band but also keeping them interested in what he was saying. Louis really, really wants to hate him. 

“Our drummer is Josh, and he’s quite the excellent banger. Or so they say, considering I haven’t had the experience.”

“Yet!” somebody calls from the very back of the room and the front man laughs merrily. And _fuck_ , did he have to possess the best laugh in the entire world too, on top of everything else? His laugh is like champagne, bubbling up inside him and spilling over, making his nose scrunch up adorably. Off to Louis’ right, Liam giggles too, and he has to fight a wince. 

 

“The beautiful woman over there is Gemma, who’s donning a lovely flower crown tonight.”

 

Gemma blushes bright pink, bowing her head and toying with the garland of red roses woven through her hair. She fiddles with her microphone so she doesn’t have to look at anyone. The blonde walks over to her, smiling charmingly in her direction. He mumbles something just to her, but the microphone picks him up, so unfortunately, the entire room hears him. 

“Gorgeous, Gems.”

 

Ooh. That’s rather interesting. What’s up between those two, hmm? Louis can pretend that he’s interested in whatever their relationship for them, and not for his own personal interests. But, just out of curiosity, is the cute blonde dating a girl? Hopefully? So he wouldn’t be sucking face with Liam later?

 

“And I’m Niall Horan.” he finishes at last, blue eyes shining. “So, for those of you who don’t know us, here’s our quick backstory. It’s really short, I promise. Me and the boys met in our first year of uni and thought we’d form a band. We like to think that the talent was there, but alas, the management was not. After struggling for two years with getting no gigs, that’s when we met Gems- _Gemma_ , sorry, who set us straight, thankfully. She was strictly management at first, saying she wanted no part of the singing because she couldn’t carry a tune. Clearly, she lied to me. Can you guys believe that?”

 

The audience laughs again and Gemma rolls her eyes, unable to stop her smile directed towards Niall, who grins right back. Seeming to gain confidence with his gaze on her, Gemma steps forward, grabbing her own microphone. 

“It’s only because he heard me singing Christina Aguilera in the shower- _ah_ \- well, he heard me sing once and then didn’t stop begging me to join until I said yes.”

“Well, obviously.” Niall replies with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “You keep this band in line, you're talented, and- and-”

 

This time, Niall’s voice dies and he pulls the microphone firmly away from his mouth, making sure he’s not heard this time. Louis leans in closer, listening to the words that he’s meant to be speaking only for himself. 

“And you’re rather lovely, aren’t ya.”

 

The blonde gives himself a shake, walking to the back of the stage and picking up his own guitar. He slings it over his body, quickly tuning it and dancing his long, pale fingers over the strings. 

“Let’s sing some feckin’ songs!” Niall crows, bounding back to the front of the stage. Flicking his tousled hair out of his eyes, he counts off the band, and away they go. 

 

Okay, so now Louis definitely sees what that girl from earlier was talking about. 

 

Sure, the music's awesome, even though Louis couldn't tell you what the genre is. It seems to be a mixture of pop, rock, and maybe even some Irish trad music thrown in there. Ed and Josh are jamming out on their instruments, and Gemma does have a great voice, belting out all the high notes with ease. But the real star of the show is Niall. There's no denying that. None of the rest of them hold a candle to him. 

 

Niall Horan is sex on legs when he's singing. He's positively feral, strutting up and down the stage like its a runway. He's everywhere at once: wailing on the guitar alongside Ed, fucking around on the drums with Josh, harmonizing with Gemma and getting up into her personal space. (She doesn't look like she minds much, though.) He's drenched with sweat, making his already see-through tank top cling to his abs. Louis glances over at Liam, and he looks like he's going to pass out. Louis doesn't know when, how, or how many times their beer glasses got refilled, but he feels drunk and he doesn't want it to stop, wants to drink away everything that hurts and enjoy a good performance.

"Ya know," Louis shouts conversationally to Liam over the roaring of the people around them. "If he broke away from this band and went at it alone, he'd be a star. No doubt in my mind. This bloke totally has what it takes, if he wasn't hampered by other people." 

"I dunno." Liam replies. "He seems like the kind of guy that'd need support. And he seems to truly love them, ya know? Wouldn't wanna abandon the people he loves, like." 

 

Louis freezes, his warm blood turning to ice. He knows Liam didn't mean that maliciously, knows that he couldn't possibly know about the conversation Louis had with his mother this evening, but- the words strike him in the chest, like a blow right to his heart. What Liam just said _hurts_ , because Louis did abandon the people he loves, and Liam is the only person who knows how shitty he still feels about it. 

 

Is that why nothing has ever happened between him and Louis? Because of his own past, Liam can't handle being left behind, which is why he never enters real relationships. And because of what he knows of Louis' past, he can't trust him? Does Liam think Louis would abandon him? Heart aching at the thought, Louis bows his head, the music now making his head pound and his heart beat too fast. 

 

Good mood fading away, Louis begins to get annoyed by the crowd screaming. Suddenly, the shrieks increase in pitch, nearly splitting Louis' eardrums open. He glances back up to the stage, because whatever's happening must be happening up there. And well, it's certainly a sight worth seeing. 

 

Niall and Gemma are pressed chest to chest, sharing a microphone, their foreheads almost touching. They rock back and forth to the same rhythm, the only thing separating their bodies being the frets of Niall's guitar. He reaches over and tugs the flower crown out of Gemma's hair, putting it on his own head. 

" _I want what you have, I want what you have now, give it to me._ " he croons. 

" _Take my body, take my soul, nobody but you needs to know_." Gemma responds, her voice wavering slightly as Niall presses even closer to her. Jesus Christ, Louis used to think some moments in his life resembled porno plot lines, but this is something else entirely. If you could bang somebody with musical notes, that's what these two are doing. 

 

" _You are the motion, you've got the power, be my devotion: Don't wait, don't wait, don't wait anymore_..." they half scream, voices blending and meshing chaotically but beautifully, wonderfully, perfectly. And then, as soon as the note ends, they break away from each other, going to opposite sides of the stage as if that didn't just happen. The musicians hit the final notes of the song, Niall jumps up and down with his guitar a few times, and then he's stepping toward the microphone, clearing his hoarse throat before he speaks. 

"We’re gonna take a thirty minute intermission, because I dunno about my band members, but my vocal chords feel like broken glass. If you decide to go home, thanks for comin', tip your servers, and we hope you'll come see us again sometime and that you get home safely. If you decide to stay, you're infinitely cooler than the ones who leave and the best part of the night is about to come." 

 

The band goes offstage, but hardly anyone leaves the pub, much to Louis' disappointment. He doesn't really wanna go home, but he also doesn't really fancy staying crammed with this many people. He looks at Liam, who's smiling like a goon, and the suggestion of them leaving dies in his throat. 

"This is sick, mate!" Liam gushes as they shove their way out of the crowd and go to stand on the fringe of people, near the wall and pool table. There's slightly more air here, so Louis begins to feel a bit better, unbuttoning the second button of his shirt and fanning himself with his hand. 

"Are you enjoying it?" Liam asks. "I think it's great, he's great, oh my goodness. So much chemistry with that girl too, wow, like it's just so great, I'm glad we did this." 

"Me too, Li. Me too." Louis says affectionately. "Quite a change from work, eh? Better than the wards?" 

"Oh my god, so much better." he says, giggling. "Just imagine my attending in this place, she wouldn't stop scowling the entire time-" 

"Who wouldn't stop scowling the entire time?" a now familiar voice says, from behind Liam. "Besides the manager of this place, who fucking hates me." 

 

Liam gasps quietly, looking terrified. Louis and him turn around to see Niall Horan himself, in all his sweaty glory, standing in front of them. He's holding a towel and rubbing it over his damp hair. Both Liam and Louis track the movement with their eyes, but probably for different reasons. 

"Ah-uh-uh- my boss, if she was here." Liam says, stilted. "Which she isn't. But I really liked it though!" 

"Good!" Niall says, beaming widely. God, Louis can practically feel the warmth radiating from his being. Is this boy the actual sun?

"I'm glad! Nobody needs bitchy doctor bosses around anyway." 

"How-how do you know I'm a doctor?" Liam asked, dumbfounded. Niall smiles again, reaching over and tugging at the collar of his scrubs’ shirt. Liam blushes, nodding hurriedly, and Louis feels sick to his stomach. Because he can see how Liam is looking at this boy, and even though he'd had obvious chemistry with the girl in his band, that doesn't seem to be stopping him from making moves on Liam. And even though Louis can do nothing to stop it, he knows what's about to happen, and he just really, really can't see it. Not tonight. 

 

“I’ll be back, fellas, I’m just gonna- gonna go get some air, clear my head a bit.” Louis mumbles, nodding briefly to them both and sending a small smile in Liam’s direction so he isn’t worried. He sidles past them and then shoves his way through the people, towards the back door of the pub. Every footfall propelling him away echoes the sound of his ripping heart. 

 

Outside the back of the pub, Louis leans against the cold wall, hunching down further in his jean jacket. He shivers and turns the collar up to his neck, fighting the chilly wind. He looks at his surroundings, taking in the grimy Dumpster off to his left and the sound of two alleycats fighting off in the distance. Ah, how lovely London is at night. He sighs, tipping his head back and reaching into his pocket, pulling out his packet of cigarettes. Taking one out, he lights it and takes a drag, for once not feeling guilty. If Liam can have his guilty pleasure of kissing boys that are assuredly Not Louis Tomlinson, then he can smoke a damn cigarette once in awhile. 

 

Looking at the waning moon, Louis blows out the smoke, feeling it burn his eyes. Coughing haggardly, he opens his mouth to speak. Like the idiot that he is, to soothe his love lorn heart, Louis decides to quote some poetry. More specifically, Gregory Stone’s poetry. 

 

_“Everyone gets drunk off something,_

_And everyone’s something is different.”_

_“Some get drunk off happiness,_

_You’ll find them giggling away,_

_In a corner somewhere._

_Hyped up on happiness,_

_To try and stop the pain.”_

_“Others get drunk from pain._

_Emotional._

_Mental._

_Physical._

_Anything._

_The release of it,_

_Is intoxicating.”_

 

Here, Louis pauses, swallowing. He shuts his eyes and hurriedly brings the almost burnt out cigarette to his mouth, inhaling whatever’s left of it. He feels lightheaded, and can’t figure out if it’s from the alcohol he’s been drinking, the nicotine now in his system, or Liam. Probably a combination of all three. He stubs out his cig and continues speaking. 

 

_“I’ve often wondered,_

_What you get drunk from._

_Joy?_

_Anger?_

_Terror?_

_Sadness?_

_You always change_

_Your preference.”_

_“I’m no enigma though._

_My preference never changes._

_I get drunk off you._

_When you’re with me,_

_I become an alcoholic.”_

_“Totally inebriated,_

_Intoxicated._

_Dependent._

_Drunk.”_

 

Louis coughs into his hand, throwing the used end of the cigarette onto the ground and grinding it down with his foot. He looks back up at the cloudy sky, his eyes stinging from smoke and maybe some tears. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, that was ‘Drowning in a Bottle’ by Gregory Stone.” he says bitterly. “Seemed rather appropriate to my current situation.”

 

And suddenly, in the shadows of the night, somebody applauds. Louis almost jumps out of his skin, looking around wildly for whoever’s with him. He narrows his eyes, peering into the darkness suspiciously. 

“Who’s there?” he says defensively, trying to make his voice stronger than it really felt. “C’mon, don’t hide.”

“Relax, it’s only me.” a feminine voice responds, and then, out slinks the girl, Gemma, unpeeling herself from the opposite wall of the pub, as if she was a part of the building itself. “I’m not threatening.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, now.” Louis says warily, relief flooding his limbs anyway. He isn’t going to die. As shitty as this day has been, he still doesn’t want to die before it’s done. 

“Not after that performance. You seemed pretty fierce to me.”

Gemma scoffs, rolling her eyes. Her reddish-blonde hair almost looks silver in the weak light of the moon and again, Louis thinks she could be a fairy or a sprite or something. 

 

“Nice poem.” Gemma says, scuffing at the ground with the toe of her high-heeled boot. “Did you write that yourself?”

“Nah, read it in a book once.” he says, lying easily. Usually, nobody ever questions him after that point and he hadn’t even known he had an audience. If he did, he wouldn’t have recited the stupid thing. 

“You memorized it after reading it in a book once?” she asks disbelievingly, thin eyebrows rising. 

“Maybe it was more than once.” he admits and she gives a small smile, flashing dimples. 

“Well, thanks for it, anyway. Fits my situation pretty well too.”

 

Uh-oh. Dangerous territory. Louis is seriously hoping that he doesn’t have the break the news to her that their two “situations” happen to be coinciding at this very moment. Like “Oh hey, stranger that I met in the dark alleyway, wanna talk about how the boy I love and the boy you love are swapping spit, probably as we speak?”

 

“May I ask who- who you get drunk off of?” Gemma says cautiously, her big eyes somber as she looks at him. Louis pauses, considering, but then decides to just tell her, because she’s hurting and he’s got natural big brother instincts and maybe it’d help to hear that somebody is in the same shitty situation, even if they’re a stranger. 

“My roommate.” Louis responds. “We’ve been friends since university, but it’s kinda always been a- a _thing_ for me and not for him.”

Louis lets that sentence sink in before he goes on, waits for the final pronoun to click and judge her reaction. But Gemma doesn’t even blink, her face remaining totally impassive, so either she doesn’t give a shit, or she didn’t notice. Either way, Louis takes this as his cue to keep talking. 

 

“And there are sometimes when I think it’s a possibility? That he and I will wind up together in the end. Like- he’ll look at me some way, or I’ll make him laugh and I’ll just think “ _There’s no way you and me aren’t meant to be together._ ” 

 

Gemma nods, her eyes firmly focused on Louis’ face. He doesn’t expect her to say anything in response, is about to keep talking when she says,

“Have you told him?”

“No.” Louis says with a small sigh, and he sees her expression, he knows what piece of advice is coming next. 

“And before you tell me that that’s my problem, here’s why I haven’t told him. My roommate- he’s fragile. He can’t deal with many rocks to his world, because once, when he was only eighteen, his world was rocked so badly that people thought he’d never recover from it. I didn’t even know him then, so I can’t really tell you how bad it was. And we’ve been friends for ages now, and I really believe that he couldn’t handle hearing my feelings. So, if we’re ever going to become anything, it’ll have to come from him, but I know it’s not going to. Because like- if it was gonna happen, I think it would’ve by now.”

 

His companion nods, biting down on her bottom lip in distress, and Louis offers her a limp smile, feeling worn out. He gestures his hand toward her invitingly. He’s said his piece, now it’s her turn, because that’s the only thing that’ll make her feel better. He tells Gemma so, and she laughs tiredly, shaking her head. 

“You and every person in that audience tonight knows what I get drunk from.” she says, leaning against the wall as if she’s too exhausted to hold herself up. “Actually, I’m pretty sure everyone in the entire fucking world knows.”

 

Louis doesn’t respond, because he really doesn’t know how. She had been pretty obvious up there, but honestly, she’s only human. If Niall Horan had been basically rubbing himself up and down Louis onstage, he was fairly sure he’d be obvious about how he felt too. Gemma presses her fingers to her temples, drawing a rattily breath. Louis takes out his pack of cigarettes again and offers it to her, but she shakes her head, wrapping her slim arms around her stomach. 

 

“I’ve liked him from the first moment I saw him.” she says, her voice softening as she remembers. “Something about him just like- told me he was going to be special to me? I think it was his smile at first, but then I heard his laugh, and I was a goner. Niall- he’s just- he’s got star power. I’m sure you saw it. If he left our band, he’d be famous: we all know it, and so does he. I’ve even told him to leave, to put himself first, but he won’t. Sentimental wanker that he is.” Gemma continues, affection bleeding its way into her voice. 

 

“And- and I think that was the moment I realized I was in love with him. When he told me that there was no fucking way he was quitting Nameless. It was all of us or none. I knew it then.”

“Have you told him?” Louis presses gently, turning her own question back on her. “Does he know?”

 

Gemma drags a hand down her face, pinching her nose. She huffs out a breath, nodding quickly, like it hurts her. 

“He does.” she says tiredly. “I told him once, last summer when our band went to the beach together, and-”

“And he didn’t feel the same way?” Louis finishes for her, reaching over and taking her hand. He’s surprised at the movement, but he doesn’t take it back. Gemma squeezes his hand, fighting tears. 

“No,” she says brokenly. “No, that’d be better than what actually happened.” 

“What did happen, Gemma?” he asks gently. 

“He told me he was in love with me too.” she says, looking at Louis and smiling through her tears. She looks like every tragic love poem ever written. “And for one moment, I was totally happy. We spent the next two weeks kissing by the ocean, sneaking into each other’s hotel rooms, you know, every summer romance cliche in the book.” 

 

Louis nods as if he can relate to what she’s talking about. He isn’t really seeing the problem then, but like every love story, it’s not over. 

“But we got back home, and like-reality hit us, I guess. We realized that our lives are complicated as all hell. We’re in a band together, so if we broke up, what would happen Nameless? We wouldn’t want to destroy it for Ed and Josh. And I forgot to mention that my little brother is Niall’s best friend. He’s actually the reason I met Niall in the first place, so this could be seen as all his fault. And he’s super protective of me, for reasons that I’m not getting into right now and definitely can’t tell a stranger.”

 

Louis nods, stifling a smile, because this situation is so odd. They’re just two lonely people, with their own shortcomings and baggage and backstories. They can’t have who they really want, and now they’re finding solace in one another. It’s like Broken Heart Anonymous. 

“And now it’s just fucked, because I know what his heartbeat pressed against mine feels like, but the closest I get to him is when we’re onstage together.”

“Sounds like a poem of your own, Gemma.” he says kindly, rubbing his thumb comfortingly up and down the girl’s palm. She smiles wanly, shaking her head. She glances at the watch on her wrist and jumps, swearing under her breath. 

“I’d better get back in there, the second set is starting soon.” she says, dropping Louis’ hand and turning, going over to the back door of the pub. She pauses as she opens it, turning back to look at her companion. 

“If Gregory Stone isn’t your name, what is?”

“Louis.” he offers. “Louis Tomlinson.”

“Gemma Styles.” she returns. “Wasn’t sure if you caught my last name.”

She takes a breath and then smiles in his direction, her sadness melting away. Well, Louis supposes that she can’t look miserable if she’s about to go sing onstage. 

“Thank you- Louis.”

 

 

The way it works out, Nameless doesn’t end up playing their second set that night. Louis goes back into the Fiddler soon after Gemma, ushered in by the cold and his reluctance to smoke some more. He wades his way through the all the people, who are beginning to clamor for Nameless to get back on. There's no sign of Liam or Niall, so it doesn't take a rocket scientist to put the puzzle pieces together. Louis fights his way to the corner of the bar, finding an empty high table and sitting in the chair, so he can see what's happening around him. A waitress comes over and he orders a mojito at long last, because beer just isn't cutting it anymore. Maybe he'd throw some tequila shots in there and really fuck himself up. 

 

"Lou?" 

Turning around in his seat, Louis sees Liam walking toward him, looking blissed out. Holding back a sigh, Louis rests his chin on his arms, getting ready to hear all about Liam's naughty exploits of the last half hour as Liam climbs into the seat opposite him. 

"Here you are." Liam says happily. "Have you been here the entire break? I thought you went outside." 

"I did." Louis replies shortly, taking the mojito that the waitress from before offered him with a grateful smile. Sweet, alcoholic relief. "Bit cold for me out there." 

"Oh." 

 

Liam doesn't say anything else, just resting his chin on his hand and studying Louis. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, taking a sip of his drink and stirring it around with the umbrella. Liam's dying to talk, he can tell. 

"Was he a good kisser, then?" Louis starts, ignoring the jab of pain each word brings him. 

"What?" Liam asks in bewilderment, sitting up straighter and looking at Liam in surprise. "Who?" 

"The blonde, guitarist fella. Niall." 

"What? Oh, Louis, no." Liam giggles, bringing a hand to his mouth to smother his laughter. "No, we didn't do anything, besides chat. He mostly talked about his band. I wish you'd stayed, I bet you would've got on really well." 

 

Louis almost breaks down crying into his fruity drink. Because Liam didn't hook up with a pretty face tonight, so maybe it wasn't total shit, after all. It didn't turn out to be Louis' and Liam's night, as he had originally hoped, but at least it wasn't Liam's night with somebody else. 

"Yeah, he seemed really friendly." Louis says, any animosity he held toward the situation disappearing. "Good bloke." 

"Not as good as you." Liam says, his eyes shining. "Seriously, Louis. I know sometimes I'm hard to handle and I've got all my worries and I depend on you far too much, but really- I can't imagine my life without you. I dunno where I'd be without you." 

 

Louis swallows past the lump in his throat, looking down into the depths of his half-full glass and smiling. His eyes were filling once more, and seriously, if Louis cries one more time tonight, he’ll get his tear ducts surgically removed. 

“God only knows where I’d be without you.” he sing-songs. Liam beams, leaning in closer and quieting his voice. He’s a good singer, but unconfident. 

“God only knows.” he echoes, his voice harmonizing with Louis’ nicely. A girl standing near their table sends them a disapproving look, holding a finger to her lips and beckoning back towards the stage with her head. 

“Ah, look’s like the band’s getting back on.” Louis says, making moves to stand up. “Wanna go closer?”

“Nah,” Liam says, shaking his head. “Bit cramped. I’d rather sit here with you.”

 

“Right, mates!” Niall says into the mic, his exuberant personality reaching even Liam and Louis in the back of the room. “We’ve got some nice songs coming up, a couple ballads that’ll make you remember what it felt like to be a heartbroken sixteen year old, courtesy of Edward. We only play those ones because it boosts the sale of tequila at every pub we go to. And we’ve got some feel-good songs too, which we all collaborated on. So, shall we?”

 

Niall gives the audience a thumbs up and walks to the back of the stage, grabbing his guitar. He moves back to the front, not paying attention to where he’s moving as he quickly tunes it. Niall walks to the front plank of the stage, still fiddling with his instrument. His foot hits a slippery patch of wood, probably where some beer was spilled or something, and Louis feels what’s going to happen before he sees it, watching through his fingers. 

 

Niall slips on the spilled drink and then falls, his legs going right out from under him. The crowd gasps as he goes down, but then it gets worse. He skids down the front stairs of the stage, before walloping his head off the middle step, and finally, stays still, half his body on the stairs and half on the floor. His guitar is still draped around his body, looking like the strap is choking him. 

 

Liam is up, out of his seat, and halfway across the room before Louis can breathe. 

 

“Get out of the way.” he calls to the people around him, having no qualms about pushing his way through them all. “I’m a doctor, _move_.” 

Louis scrambles out of his seat and rushes after Liam, following the path he cut through the crowd. He bows his head and hunches his shoulders, trying not to draw attention to himself. After a few moments, he reaches Liam, who is currently having an argument with some fangirl, who has taken it upon herself to be Niall’s defender. She’s standing in front of his limp body with her arms thrown out wide, looking ready to fight Liam. 

“How do we know you’re a doctor?” she says suspiciously and Liam groans, taking off his name tag from work and throwing it at her. On a reflex, she catches it, staring at it in surprise. 

‘Liam Payne, MD, Royal London Hospital.” he says authoritatively. “If that’s enough evidence for you, please get out of the way.”

 

The girl steps aside and the two guys go past her. Liam kneels by Niall’s side, who is awake, thankfully. He’s blinking up at Liam and Louis in confusion, his blue eyes dazed. Louis sees that his knee is twisted at an odd angle and bile rises up in his throat, his stomach flipping. 

“Wot happened?” Niall mumbles, giggling slightly. “I’m on the ground.” 

“Good observation.” Liam says with a wry smile. “We’re gonna get you up and out of this room now, okay? Take you somewhere quieter. You’ve got too many adoring fans around here.”

“My knee hurts.” Niall says in surprise, the pain clearly just hitting him now. “Ah _fuck_ , it seriously hurts.” 

‘Louis, help me get him up.” Liam says, putting a steady hand underneath Niall’s shoulder and easing him into a sitting position. Louis hurries over to the other side, copying Liam’s movements. They make eye contact over Niall’s head and Liam smiles calmingly, not stressed out at all. louis, however, feels like he’s gonna get sick. His leg looks all wonky. What the fuck happened to it as he fell? And how does Liam handle stuff like this all day, every day?

 

They slowly get Niall standing, Liam supporting most of Niall’s body weight so he’s putting no pressure on his bad leg. Louis isn’t as strong as Liam, so he can’t carry much of the burden, but he manages to usher other people away so they can get out of the main room of the pub. 

 

They hobble with Niall into the backroom of the bar, easing him down into a chair. It’s darkly light, and they’re surrounded by cleaning supplies and about a million cases of beer. Liam feels around the wall and finds a light switch, flipping it up so light floods inside the tiny room. Niall is sitting in the chair, his hands clenched into fists to fight off the pain. Louis doesn’t know how to comfort him, because he doesn’t know this guy that well, so he opts for an awkward shoulder pat. Eventually, he finds some kind of rhythm, rubbing small circles into Niall’s shoulder blade. 

“What’s your name, man?” Niall asks, looking up at him and smiling weakly. 

“Louis.” he says, offering him his other hand. Niall shakes it limply and then rests his forehead against Louis’ bicep, any shyness he might’ve had gone. Louis slowly runs a hand through the boy’s blonde hair soothingly, remembering that that’s what Lottie liked him to do whenever she was hurt. 

 

A rapid knocking comes at the door and Liam opens it. Gemma bustles in, her anxiety following her like a cloud. She goes right to Niall’s side, kneeling down so she’s eye-level with him. She cups his face with her hands gingerly, leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. Then she stands up, hurtling towards Liam. 

“He’s gonna be alright, right?” she demands to know. 

“He’s gonna be fine.” Liam says assuredly, resting a comforting hand on Gemma’s elbow. “He’s not unconscious, he’s breathing fine. It just looks like his knee’s been dislocated, and that’s an easy fix.” 

“His knee, Jesus Christ, Niall, I’m always telling you not to dance onstage as much as you do. You’ve got shit knees, for God’s sake.” she chides, looking back at Niall. 

“Wanted- to dance with you.” Niall responds quietly, pain evident in his voice. Gemma goes silent, biting down on the inside of her cheek. Liam sidles past her, gently guiding her so she’s standing on Niall’s right side, opposite Louis. He then kneels in front of Niall, looking up at them all. 

“Okay, Lou, hold his left hand. Gemma, get his right. I’m gonna pop his knee back in on three-”

“You’re gonna what?” all three of them say in unison. 

“Niall, your knee is a ball-and-socket joint, and it’s been thrown out of it’s socket. That’s why it hurts so much. So, when I count to three, I’m gonna slide it back into place. Just don’t tense yourself up too much, that’ll make it more difficult.”

 

Niall nods, taking a deep breath and then letting it out, shutting his eyes. Gemma clings to his hand tighter, making his fingers purple. Louis feels queasy, and all he knows is that he doesn’t want to see whatever Liam’s about to do, so he closes his eyes too. 

“On three.” Liam says, his voice strong. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Niall mumbles, his lips barely moving. 

 

“One.”

 

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, man-” Niall starts to say. 

 

“Two.”

 

Before he says three, Liam shoves his hand upward, popping the knee back into place. Niall curses vehemently, squeezing both Louis’ and Gemma’s hands tight. Louis opens his eyes and sees Liam sitting back on his heels, smiling with satisfaction. Steeling himself, Louis looks at Niall’s leg, and is amazed to see that it looks perfectly normal.

“Is that it?” Gemma asked with uncertainty. 

“Yep, all done.” Liam says cheerfully, standing up and brushing off his hands. “I’d take him to his own doctor in the morning, but he’ll be good for tonight. Give him some Paracetamol for any pain, and if you’ve got a knee brace, put that on it.”

“You said on three.” Niall says weakly, with a shaky smile. “Could this be seen as medical fraud?” 

“Shh, Niall.” Gemma says fondly, smoothing Niall’s sweaty hair off from his forehead. “He helped you. Thank you, Dr?”

“Liam.” he supplies with a kind smile. “Just Liam, please.” 

“Just Liam, then.” Gemma says with a small smile. She’s being charmed by him, as everybody else on the planet is. “Could I get your phone number, in case I have any questions about Niall?”

 

Here, she looks at Louis, and that easy smile is now directed toward him. 

“And I’d like yours too, for similar reasons.” she says and Louis bites back a smile. She’s a cool girl. She reaches inside her jeans’ pocket and pulls out her phone, handing it to Liam. He dutifully taps in his phone number and then passes it to Louis, who does the same. She helps Niall out of his chair and they walked forward together, Niall leaning heavily on Gemma. Liam opens the door and they walk out, Gemma calling back another thank-you as they leave. 

 

Back in their apartment, Liam and Louis sit in the kitchen, drinking tea and talking over the night. Louis dumps three spoonfuls of sugar into his mug and then pours milk in. (Even though he takes his coffee black, tea simply has to be sweet for Louis.) Liam studies him as he takes a sip from his own mug, a small smile lingering on his mouth. 

“Did you enjoy your first medical experience, Louis?” Liam asks, and Louis hurriedly shakes his head no, pulling a face. 

“God no. Every time I looked at his leg, I thought I was gonna vomit.”

“You’d make a good nurse.” Liam observes and Louis stares at him, affronted. Liam keeps a straight face for a few moments but then bursts out laughing. He chuckles merrily, holding his hands to his stomach. 

“I’m only joking, you’d be awful. I thought you were gonna faint too and then I’d have two patients on my hands.”  
Louis starts laughing too, and Liam moves to refill their teacups, and Louis thinks that maybe, it ended up being their night, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long, I've been crazy busy, but I hope it was worth the wait! Tell me if you liked it :)  
> (I dunno where the Niall/Gemma ship came from, but here we are). #Nemma4lyfe XD


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature."_ -Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey.

It all starts with a simple text to Louis' phone, the Monday following Liam and Louis' night of debauchery on Saturday. Louis is lying in his bed, half awake and half asleep as Liam bolts around the apartment, trying to somewhat tidy the place up before he leaves for work. Louis watches him run past his bedroom through one lazily opened eye, an equally lazy smile stretching across his face as he sees Liam haul the Hoover out from the closet.   
"Leyum, don't worry your head, I'll do that later today." Louis calls from his bed, snuggling down further into the duvet as the chilly morning air hits him.   
"No, you won't." Liam responds over the noise of the vacuum as he drags it back and forth across the carpet.   
"Okay, I probably won't, but would the thought of me doing it make you stop?"   
"No, because these carpets are absolutely horrid. Besides, I want you to write today."   
"Good joke, mate!" Louis says cheerily. "I knew you were smart, but I didn't know you were funny!" 

Liam pops his head around the door of Louis' room, before pushing it open and shoving the vacuum cleaner ahead of him. He looks at Louis as he cleans, and the serious expression on his face makes Louis think that maybe, he wasn't joking.   
"I'm serious, Lou." he says, quietly but firmly. "I think you're languishing up here, stuck in the flat. If you're gonna stay in all day, then you should at least try and write. It doesn't have to be good, even though everything you write is, but just get something down on paper."   
"It's not that simple, Liam." Louis grumbles, shoving his face into his pillow. "I can't just make it happen, that's not how writing works. I have to like- feel it."   
"Well, you're never going to feel it lying in bed." Liam responds, sterner now. He switches the Hoover off and walks over to Louis' bed, slowly peeling the covers back off him. "If you don't wanna write, then please get out of the house, at least. Go for a walk. Go to a coffee shop and bring a notebook with you, in case you're hit with inspiration."   
"That's cliché." Louis whispers backs, frowning. Liam sighs, pursing his lips together thoughtfully. He looks at Louis seriously, studying his features. Doctor Mode. He touches Louis' neck, feeling his pulse, and then moves to his forehead, checking for a temperature. Pinching his cheek gently, Liam smiles.   
"Not sick, but you're as white as a ghost. Go outside, get some color in those cheeks. Doctor's orders. Please." Liam says softly. 

The sudden silence between them is broken as Louis' phones buzzes on his nightstand. Louis stifles a groan as he sits up, his joints clicking. He grabs for the phone and pulls it toward him, squinting against the brightness of the screen as Liam fully tugs the blankets off him. Louis narrows his eyes more to read the text, feeling the beginnings of a headache. 

_Hi Louis, it's Niall, from the pub :DDDDDD Got your number from Gemma. I'm bored off my head, wanna hang out this morning? Bring your mate Liam too, if he's free._

"No." Louis says flatly.   
"Yes!" Liam says excitedly. "Not that I can go, but you definitely should! He was so nice, Lou. I think you guys would really get on. He has just the kind of humor you'd love."   
"I'm sure he's a bloody riot, but my bed is extraordinarily comfortable, so-"   
Liam lunges forward and grabs Louis by the waist. He lifts him up with ease, swinging him out of bed and putting him on his own two feet. Louis stares at him, still the feeling the warmth of Liam's palms on his hips, even though he'd removed his hands.   
"Been hitting the gym, have ya?" he asks incredulously, feeling his voice waver a bit. Liam chuckles and shakes his head.   
"Patients are heavy, mate. But now you're out of bed, so really, there's nothing holding you back from going to hang out with Niall."   
"I don't have anything to wear." Louis starts feebly, knowing his excuses are weakening. "I'll look like a hobo..."   
"Louis, I really, really doubt he gives a shit.”  
“I just- don’t really want to go.”  
“Please go. If not for you, than for me. Go for me." 

_Hey Niall, great to hear from you! Liam has work this morning, but I'm free as a bird. Wanna meet me at Rosie's Coffeeshop in Notting Hill?_

 

Even with an injured knee, Niall Horan is the most energetic person alive. Seriously, Louis is praying he's drinking decaf coffee right now. He hasn't stopped moving since Louis discovered him, sitting in the corner of Rosie's with a cup of coffee and a half-eaten bun in front of him. He's bouncing his knees up and down, he's drumming a beat against the scratched wood of the table, he's nodding his head to music that only he can hear. Niall literally doesn't stop moving. 

Louis finds it kinda exhausting. 

Despite this, Louis' morning hasn't been too bad, so far. He was ushered out of the house by Liam, and then he'd walked slowly to the coffeeshop where he'd told Niall to meet him. (Wouldn't wanna appear too eager, meeting the star Niall Horan, now would he?) He had a nice walk: the day was cold, yeah, but sunny, and Louis bathed in the sunlight like a housecat. Liam would be proud of him for getting his daily amount of Vitamin D. He'd gotten here and pushed his way over to Niall, recognizing him by the blonde mop. 

Niall's dressed nicely, at least nicer than he had been on Saturday, anyways. He's wearing loose- fitting jeans, Keds, and a blue jumper, making his eyes seem bluer than they already are. A black brace is wrapped tightly around his knee, holding it in place and somewhat limiting his constant movement. It looks too neatly done to be by Niall's own hand, so Louis assumes Gemma was involved somehow. And, ever present, is Niall's smile. His face looked like it was going to split in two when Louis came in. 

Shifting his gaze, Louis leans back in his chair and looks around himself. Rosie's Coffeeshop is crowded, as always. It's a tiny little joint, in the middle of Notting Hill. It's got every coffeeshop cliché in the book: a pastel blue door, faded from the English sunlight, a countertop facing the window, haphazard bookshelves along the walls. Even Rosie herself is sorta a cliché. She's a little old woman, probably a widow, with long silver hair in a plait, gentle blue eyes, a fiery temper beneath the surface, and a muffin recipe that nobody else knows. Louis adores her, and this place. 

All of London must adore it, though. People are queued up through the entire building, waiting however long it'd take to get served. Generally the wait is about forty-five minutes, but somehow, a waitress had come trotting over to Louis as soon as he'd sat next to Niall. It had seemed like a work of God to Louis, but considering how the girl blushed when Niall looked up and smiled at her, giving a sneaky wink, Louis figures it's more the work of a fangirl. So, now Louis sits, with a cup of tea and a stranger in front of him. Well, he might not be a stranger, per se, considering Louis knows who he's in love with and helped pop his knee joint back into its socket. 

"So, Louis." Niall said, crumbs of his croissant falling out of his mouth and down his chin. "Where do you work that enabled you to bunk off on a Monday morning? I mean, assuming you're not a dead-beat, self employed musician, like myself."   
Louis chuckles a bit, toying with a napkin and tearing the corner. He shakes his head slowly, looking up and matching Niall's easy grin.   
"Not a musician, no." he says. "But a dead-beat, self employed something, certainly."   
"Prostitution is a perfectly acceptable profession, mate." Niall dead pans, and Louis laughs, a sudden burst of noise that startles Niall and himself. Liam was right: Niall is funny. Louis had assumed his stage persona was different from how he acted offstage, but it isn't at all, really. He must put people at ease wherever he is.   
"Oh, I know." Louis replies, still chuckling into his teacup. "But no. I'm something worse. A writer."   
"Songs?" Niall says, almost gasping as his eyes light up with creative fire. Louis can almost see the wheels turning in his head, and he has to put a stop to them, right now. Sure, he likes this guy, more than he expected to, but he's not ready to dive in to a business partnership just yet.   
"No songs, unfortunately. Poetry." Louis quips, bringing his tea to his mouth and taking a hesitant sip.   
"Poetry's just music without a melody. Or chords. Or fun, really." Niall says, taking a swig of coffee and muttering a curse as it burns his mouth. "I'll get ya someday."   
"You do that." Louis says, strangely not bothered by the fact that Niall assumes there's going to be a "someday" in their friendship. 

Niall's phone buzzes on the table and he reaches for it, wincing as he knocks his knee off the leg of the table. He slides it open and squints to read the screen, his lips mouthing the words he reads. He flushes a bit, his cheeks getting pinker as he worries his tongue between his upper teeth. And it doesn't take a genius to figure out who texted him. Louis isn't a genius, but he's definitely smarter than the average bear.   
"Sorry." Niall mumbles, clearing his throat. "It's Gemma. We're trying to figure out her brother's birthday party for next week. His birthday is February 1st, he's turning twenty."   
"Youngster." Louis says mildly, trying to sound like he cares more than he really does.   
"Yeah, he's the baby of our group. But I can't think of what he'd like his party to be like. He hates surprises, so that obvious choice is out. Part of me thinks he doesn't even want a party, because he's not too keen on being the centre of attention, but- but he's finally not a teenager anymore, and I want to commemorate that somehow. Plus, he's always up for a party, so like- he deserves that, I think." 

Niall pauses, scratching at the nape of his neck with his blunt nails. He reddens again as another text comes in, hurriedly shutting his phone and putting back on the table. He rests his chin on his folded hands, sighing deeply.   
"Just want it to be good." Niall mutters, and with those words, it clicks for Louis. He wants it to be good whoever the guy is, because they seem to be friends and Niall seems like a fucking awesome friend, honestly. But he wants it to be good for Gemma more.   
"For her." Louis says, making Niall's eyes flick to his face. "Gems."   
"Oi, don't call her that." Niall cries, suddenly sharp. "That's our thing-" 

Niall's voice trails off, but his silence is filled with Louis' mischievous laughter. He blushes bright red as Louis nearly falls out of his chair, clasping his hands over his stomach, chortling.   
"You did that on purpose." Niall says petulantly, watching Louis wipe at the corners of his eyes.   
"Of course I did." Louis says with a grin. "Because you're mad for her."   
"So what if I am?" Niall responds easily, his embarrassment abating faster than Louis had expected it to. "I think I'd rather be totally arse over elbow for somebody, than just sorta into them. You don't know this about me yet, but moderation isn't in my language. I do everything fully, even love. Which is why this party needs to be fucking fantastic." 

Niall grabs Louis' napkin from his hand, his calloused, guitar-player fingers rough against Louis' skin. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a blue Biro and starts jotting stuff down, counting off people on his fingers as he goes.   
"Me...Gemma....H...." he mumbles, chewing on the end of the pen. His expression sours as he clearly remembers something, and he rolls his eyes, saying, "Well, I suppose I have to invite that guy..."   
Interest piqued, Louis surreptitiously leans forward, wanting to know who Niall doesn't want to invite. Narrowing his eyes, he reads his messy handwriting upside down. Thankfully, if Louis can decipher his own chicken scratch, he can basically read anything, be it upside down, left or right, or sideways. " _Grimmy_ " is written there, and Louis wrinkles his nose. The fuck kind of name is that? Niall pauses, his pen hovering above the napkin like he was considering crossing it out, but then he gives himself a shake, smoothing it down.   
"Well, that's a start, I suppose." Niall says, looking back at Louis with a bright smile. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of him, and then he was scribbling on the napkin again.   
"And obviously, you and Liam are invited too, duh." he says, somewhat apologetically, and Louis hurriedly shakes his head.   
"No, no, mate, don't feel obligated to do that." he says cajolingly, not wanting it at all. The last thing he wants is to go to some random bloke's twentieth. "Invite Liam, if you want, but don't feel like you've got to have me, because we hung out today."   
"Louis, I want you there, and because I'm organizing it, I'm having you there. You're a right laugh: all of my friends'll love you. And we need to have Liam there, in case any of us die and need to be resuscitated." 

Niall nods his head in satisfaction, smiling winningly at Louis. He feels his lips twitch into a weak smile, feeling vaguely like he was being dragged down a steep hill by a blonde-haired, blue-eyed demon. Niall finished writing his and Liam's name down, reaching for his coffee cup and draining it. Louis self consciously knocks his tea back, wondering if Niall had had enough of him and wanted to get out of here. But looking back at him, Niall seems perfectly content to sit there and just look at Louis, resting his chin on his folded hands.   
“So, now that that’s out of the way,” Niall says, pushing the napkin away from himself, “Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Mr. Poet.”  
Louis almost chokes on his mouthful of tea. He gulps, wincing as the burning hot liquid scorches his tonsils. He raises a hand to his mouth and looks at Niall, blinking in alarm.   
“Excuse me?” he sputters, feeling his heart beat faster. He’s panicking for two reasons: one, why is Niall choosing to focus on Louis’ profession? There’s no possible way that he could know about Gregory Stone. And two, the mere fact that Niall wants to know more about him is fucking terrifying, honestly. Niall shrugs, tilting his hands towards Louis noncommittally.   
“I dunno, man. Tell me about you, what you like, what you don’t. Your story.”

The words hit Louis like a blow to his chest, aimed directly at his heart. He feels his hand tremble around the handle of his teacup, and he fights to still it. He doesn’t want to talk about this, or think about it. Because for how often Louis thinks about other people’s stories, he hates thinking about his own. He’s often tried to write it down, tried to pin it to a page with words and _understand_. Understand why everything happened, why he couldn’t forget it, why it still hurt. But the words had always gotten too blurred for Louis to read, so he gave up. 

He doesn’t want to imagine the pain of saying the words. 

“My story isn’t really worth telling.” Louis responds quietly, his eyes looking into his mug. He flicks his gaze up to look at Niall, who is looking at him with an open and friendly expression. Louis gets the feeling that this boy is genuinely good: a sweet soul who just wants to be love and to be loved. He doesn’t think Niall has ever hurt anyone, would never hurt Louis. He wants to trust Niall, something hugely uncharacteristic of Louis. But he just- he just can’t. 

“Maybe some other time, then.” Niall says gently, his voice soft, and it strikes Louis that possibly, Niall has done this before: gotten close to someone who doesn’t necessarily want it. And he gets the funny feeling that this guy won’t stop until he is close, until he’s waited enough and gently pressed enough and he gets to hear the story.   
“Maybe some other time.” Louis whispers, his voice weaker than he wants it. He clears his throat and looks down, breaking off his eye contact with Niall. He feels too open and exposed in the calming light of those blue eyes.   
‘Well, my story’s not really worth telling either, but that certainly doesn’t make me shut my gob.” Niall says, rubbing his hands together. If it were anybody else, Louis would think this was just a meaningless quip. But if he’s learned anything about Niall Horan in the few hours he’s known him, Louis knows that Niall’s greatest talent, surpassing even singing, is his ability to reassure with only his personality. He’s like the human version of a Band-Aid: he doesn’t actually _do_ much, but you’re glad to know he’s there. 

For the next half hour, Louis is regaled with the Story of Niall Horan. And despite what he said, it’s a good one. He’s twenty-two, just finished a music degree, which also explains his current state of unemployment. (Gemma and all the rest of the band majored on other things in university, but for Niall, it was all music.) Before that, he grew up in Mullingar, Ireland, a place that’s apparently all “rain, sheep, and shite.” Louis isn’t surprised he left as soon as possible. A town like that was too small to hold a personality as large as Niall’s. But despite not living there, Niall apparently has a very healthy relationship with his family, going home every Christmas, Easter, and summer holidays. 

And now, Niall’s just sorta in limbo, clearly waiting for his music to take off. Really, his story isn’t finished at all, it’s only beginning. To an outlooker, it’d seem boring: just a childhood in rural Ireland. But Louis likes it, simply because it’s so normal. There’s no secrets Niall is hiding, no tragic backstory he can’t speak about: Niall’s story is a total open book, if you’ll pardon the cliche. And Louis thinks that that is a story worth telling. 

 

They sit there for awhile longer, chatting and drinking mug after mug of their preferred drink. The waitress from earlier comes back and not-so-discreetly hands Niall her number scrawled on a napkin, accompanied with a nervous giggle and a blush. Niall offers her a kind smile back, not paying particularly attention to what she’s just given him. The girl walks away with one more pretty smile, and Niall’s own slides off his face. Blowing out a breath, he puts the number down on the table, pushing it over to Louis feebly.   
“You can take that if you want.” he mumbles, his neck reddening. “Pretend you’re me, have a laugh. Or even ask her out, she’s pretty.”   
He sighs again, resting his head on his forearm. Niall suddenly seems agitated, so Louis stays silent, not waiting to excite him further. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, puckering his skin.   
“She’s pretty.” he repeats, mostly to himself. “She’s pretty, she’s probably lovely, but- but she’s not her. And all I want is her, but that’s not a possibility.” 

They’re silent for ages afterward, Niall caught up in his own head and Louis not wanting to intrude. Part of him wants to blurt out to Niall that he knows exactly how he feels, but that could easily kill this friendship before it even gets off the ground. So he stays quiet, letting Niall have his time. He sits there, looking at the waitress’ number. He picks it up again and twirls it between his fingers, like he’s considering taking it. And Louis can’t say he really blames him. 

But when they leave Rosie’s Coffee Shop that day, Niall leaves the napkin where it is. They walk out of there, Louis slowing his pace so Niall with his gimpy leg can keep up. As Louis slides his arms into his jacket, his phone buzzes in the breast pocket. Unbuttoning it, Louis pulls out the mobile and reads the most recent text. From Liam. 

_Hey Lou! On a break right now, but I had to tell you this! Dr. Lee asked me to assist her on a appendectomy next week! First intern in a surgery, can you believe it???_

Louis feels his heart jump, because yes, this is exactly the kind of confidence boost Liam needs. Feeling like he’s going to burst with pride, Louis hides his growing grin behind his hand and quickly taps out a response, following Niall through the door of the shop and into the chilly winter air. 

_I can easily believe it, Li Li. You’re obviously the best intern on her service, if not in the entire hospital. She’d been an idiot if she asked anyone other than you._

_Well, you’re heavily biased :P But anyway, I had to get that off my chest. How’re things with Niall?_

Louis pauses, looking away from the screen of his phone and towards the boy walking in front of him. He’s moving resolutely forward, his shoulders hunched from the cold and his hands shoved deep into his pockets.He’s limping, because the strap of his knee brace has come undone. Louis feels a funny kind of smile cross his face, the kind he used to feel whenever his sisters did something cute. It can only be defined as a smile of endearment. 

_I....had a great morning. He’s a good guy._

_Told ya you’d love him XD_

_Shut it, Payno. Go cut somebody open._

 

“Oi, Nialler!” Louis calls, the nickname springing from his lips unbidden as he shoves his phone back into his pocket, hurrying to catch up to his companion. He hadn’t realized how far behind he was getting. Niall turns on his heels, wincing as his knee clicks, and Louis reaches down, grabbing the hanging strap. 

“Let’s get this fixed for ya.” he says, kneeling down as his fingers fumbled to re-attach the Velcro back into place. “Don’t want you hurting yourself.”

Louis stands back up, brushing his fringe out of his eyes and looking at Niall. He’s got a funny look on his face, and Louis flushes slightly, feeling the skin behind his ears getting warmer.   
“What?” he says self consciously, shoving his cold hands under his armpits. Niall blinks, shaking his head slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but then reconsiders, closing it again. Finally, he shrugs and then asks,   
“Do you have any siblings, Louis?”  
“Yeah.” Louis says, forcing his voice not to wobble. “Four.”  
“Any of them younger than you?”  
“Yeah, all of them. Four girls." 

Niall nods knowingly and Louis fidgets, uncomfortable. He runs a hand through his hair and glances at Niall, trying to figure out why he wanted to know. But his expression is totally unreadable: seriously, this guy would be ace at poker.   
"Why?" Louis asks at last as they kept walking, the curiosity nearly killing him. "Why's it matter?"   
"Oh, it doesn't, really." Niall responds. "I just had a hunch that you were an older brother. I've got one, and you just sounded exactly like 'im."   
"Yeah- but why'd you want to know?" Louis persists, figuring that his reason wasn't the only one.   
Niall pauses, tilting his head and looking at Louis. He smiles a kind smile, dimples appearing in the corners of his cheeks, and Louis seriously wishes that he didn't like this bloke as much as he does.   
"It's just one piece of your story, Lou." he says, and Louis doesn't really know what kind of friendship he's involved himself in this morning, but he thinks that maybe, it's okay that he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter this time around guys :( And sorry it took ages, my entire life is crazy hectic at the moment. It's almost summer though, and then I'll basically dedicate all of my time to writing fic :D tell me if you enjoyed and what I can improve on, thank you :3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love_."- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so really really long chapter this time XD I lost half of it right as I was about to post and then had to retype it all, so if the ending of the chapter seems rushed, that's why. Also, my glasses are having the prescription changed, so if there's typos, I honestly didn't see them. Please forgive :3

"You're not making me go alone. You're not." Louis says, totally monotone as he sits on Liam's bed, an apologetic (and frantic) Liam rapidly getting dressed in front of him. He's throwing on his scrubs as quickly as possible, jumping up and down a few times to get the waistband over his hips. 

"Louis, I'm so sorry." Liam says sadly, sounding genuinely upset. “But Dr. Lee pushed the appendectomy forward to tonight, and I have to be there. She’d kill me if I wasn’t, and then all the other surgical interns would kill me again, for wasting that opportunity. It’d be death via scalpel, which is kinda ironic, if you think about it.”

“As much as I adore irony, I can’t really enjoy this form of it.” Louis says, unable to avert his eyes as Liam rips his shirt off over his head. He stares at the toned muscle of Liam’s abs, a six-pack rippling beneath his skin, as Liam scrambles around searching for a clean undershirt and scrubs top. Hopefully he’s too distracted to notice Louis ogling him. Louis swallows uncomfortably, praying that Liam finds a goddamn shirt, a bathrobe, a towel: literally anything but his bare skin. 

“I just won’t go.” Louis says decisively. “I’ll text Niall right now and tell him we can’t make it. This guy doesn’t even know us, so he probably won’t notice if we’re not there, to be honest-”

“Louis, you’re going.” Liam says, his voice muffled as he pulls a shirt over his head and Louis breathes a sigh of relief. “We’ve already gotten cards and presents and everything! Besides, appendectomies are quick surgeries, like easy peasy, so I might be able to meet you there afterwards.”

“Ah yes, coming to a birthday celebration smelling of a rotting, useless organ, how lovely.” Louis says dryly, and Liam holds back a chuckle as he bends over at the waist and quickly laces his runners. 

“I’ll take a shower first, clearly.”

 

And fuck, fuck no, they’re not talking about Liam showering. Louis exales, resting his chin on his palm and looking at the floor. He’s slowly resigning himself to attending this bloody birthday party alone. He had barely wanted to go even when Liam was too, but now it’s going to take some serious motivation to get himself there. He knows it’s good manners to go, he knows that at least Niall wants him to be there, because he’s been texting Louis nonstop about it all week. 

 

_Be prepared to drink on Saturday!_

 

(Luckily, Louis is always prepared to drink, provided it’s the right kind of booze. Preferably tequila.) 

 

_Have you ever been to a rave? If not, be prepared for the night of your damn life. We’re going to one beneath the pub that we’re all meeting at. And wear light colored clothes, it’s more fun that way :DDDD_

 

(What the motherfucking shit is a rave? Louis doubts he’ll survive.)

 

_Don’t feel obligated to get him a present, or even a card. But if you’re determined, he likes alcohol, books, and music that nobody’s ever heard of._

 

(Sounds a bit like Louis, if he’s really honest with himself.)

 

And Liam was right, they did already have presents for this bloke, because angelic Liam Payne was positively affronted at the thought of not supplying a gift. Liam had gotten the guy a nice bottle of wine, which cost quite a pretty penny. Louis had no such offering. He’d walked to his bookshelf, pulled out one of the myriad Gregory Stone’s first editions, slapped a bow on it, and called it a day. But Niall had said he liked books, so Louis is going to assume this particular book is alright to give. 

 

“Can you explain what a rave is to me, again?” Louis says, flopping back on the bed. He’s wearing a white shirt and gray sweatpants, at Niall’s suggestion, but he still doesn’t really understand why. Were they going to smother themselves in lamb’s blood and offer themselves up as virginal sacrifices to Satan? Because if so, Louis’ window of opportunity for that type of worship passed five years ago. 

 

“It’s like…” Liam starts from inside the depths of his closet. “An enormous nightclub, and there’s tons of techno music playing, and I’m assuming there’s gonna be glow paint involved, if Niall told us to dress the way you have. Plenty of free alcohol and even-even drugs, I think. Which I’m hoping you’ll avoid. We get a lot of cases during the night shift from raves...”

“This sounds like hell.” Louis says flatly, pressing his face into the mattress. “Paint? _Techno music?_ If you can even call it that? God bless me and preserve me.”

“They’re supposed to be fun, Lou.” Liam says patiently as he comes out of the closet, now fully dressed. But he’s still in Liam Mode, thank God. Louis needs him to be Liam if he’s gonna muster the strength to walk about that door. “Plus, you performed for years, and it’s sorta similar. Glitter, and stage makeup, and dancing, all that stuff...Like, Danny Zuko, right?”

“You didn’t just compare _Grease_ with a rave.” Louis groans. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Come on.” Liam says gently, offering Louis his hand to pull him up. “You’ll be late.”

 

Louis glances at Liam’s hand, open and waiting for his. He swallows shallowly, and takes it, his smaller fingers slipping into the spaces of Liam’s. His palm is impossibly warm, despite it being February 1st. Louis clings on him a bit tighter than he should, but he doesn’t think Liam even notices. 

 

Five minutes later, Louis is in a taxi, his book and some wine in one hand and two cards in the other. Liam’s is already signed and neatly sealed. Louis is surprised he doesn’t have a wax seal with the Payne family crest on it. On the other hand, Louis’ card has get to be written. He finds a pen tucked away in his pocket and hopes that it hasn’t run out of ink. (Probably not though, because Louis doesn’t fucking write.) He opens the card and presses it against his thigh, trying to think of something to say. Eyes widening in horror, Louis realizes that he doesn’t even know the name of the guy he’s writing the card too. 

 

Shit fuck shit fuck _shit fuck_. He doesn’t have long to write this bloody thing, the pub he’s travelling to is only ten minutes away from his apartment, and he can’t tell a cabbie to take a lap. Scrambling to get his phone, he calls Niall, biting down on his bottom lip. His gut is telling him it starts with F. Freddie? Frankie? Or maybe it’s a Ph...Phillip?

 

“Hello?” Niall’s voice says through the phone, and Louis could’ve wept with relief.

“Niall, oh thank fuck-”

“What’s up?” he asks, sounds like easiness and light and fucking butterflies. How dare he be joyous when Louis is having severe problems? 

“Yeah, er, what’s your friend’s name again?”

“It’s Harry, mate. Harry Styles, to be specific." 

 

Harry Styles. 

 

Louis has to admit, it's a nice name. It's got good rhythm, a nice _a-a-b-b_ pattern that poets are so fond of. It reminds Louis of a romance novel leading man, if that makes any sense at all. Louis gives himself a shake, snapping out of his literary thoughts. He says a hurried goodbye to Niall and then scrawls a quick message on the card to this Harry guy. He spouts some shit about not being a teenager anymore and how much he hopes it's a good year for the bloke and then signs it with a flourish, closing the envelope as his taxi pulls up to the pub that this gathering is gonna be at. 

 

Louis shuts his eyes and blows out a breath, bracing himself. He steps out of the cab and then pays the driver, mournfully watching his ride speed away into the night. There goes escaping. Louis, heading towards the grimy steps of the bar in front of him, trying to work up some energy. He used to be good at this. Louis Tomlinson used to be the life of every party, and he'd known it too. He light up a room, people gravitated toward him, girls and guys alike tugged him onto the dance floor, desperate to hold his attention, even if only for a few moments. He was alluring, overpowering, undeniable. And right now, Louis needs to garner some of his old allure. 

 

Right. He squares his shoulders back, adopting a wider stance. Tilting his chin upward, he tousles his fringe, sweeping it to the side, almost over one eye. It's all about taking up more space, a primal intimidation tactic. He feels nerves flutter around his stomach and he fights to quell them, walking up the remaining steps and tugging the door of the pub wide open. Watch out, attendants of Toph's Bar, here comes Louis Tomlinson. 

 

Louis steps inside and wants to sprint back out the door immediately. Because it seems like Niall invited everyone in London to this get-together. In fact, Louis almost thinks he simply extended an open invitation to everyone off the bloody street. Everyone around him is chattering excitedly about the rave, and they're all dressed in white. What happened to that small list of people on the napkin? Did Niall deplete Great Britain's napkin supply by writing everyone's name down? Louis is going to die before tonight is over. 

 

Shoving his way through the crowd of people all around the pub, Louis struggles to make his way to the bar itself. It's most likely where he'd find Niall or Gemma, the only two people he knows at this fucking thing. And if he can't find them, well at least then, the alcohol will be nearby. Maybe Louis could just fling himself into a keg of beer and wait for the consequential oxygen deficiency to kill him. Death by fermented yeast. What a way to go. He makes it to the bar and hops up on a stool, using the few added feet of height to look around the room for the wanker who invited him. 

"I'm gonna kill him." Louis seethes under his breath. "There will be no more Niall Horan. He throws me into this total melee, and then isn't even here to greet me. Fucking lovely." 

 

The bartender comes over, wiping a pint glass down with a rag. He glances at Louis quizzically, no doubt hearing his muttered ranting. Louis gives him a weak smile, as if to say _I'm not crazy, I swear,_ and he returns it, albeit hesitantly. 

"What'll it be, mate?" he asks, setting the glass down. "You look like you've had a rough day." 

"Bring me whatever you've got with the highest alcohol concentration." Louis says tiredly, resting his forehead on the palm of his hand, the hardback book still clenched in the other. "Not remembering this would probably be in my best interest, and other people's." 

The bartender nods, and pours Louis a straight up tequila shot. He glances at the book in his hands as Louis knocks the shot back, coughing as it burns his throat. 

"My girlfriend has that." he says shortly. " 'M pretty sure she loves that Stone fella more than she loves me. She says he "understands" her or something." 

"He's shit, don't fear." Louis jokes weakly, holding a hand to his chest as his heart beats way too quickly. He's too fucking thin for alcohol like this: he'll be under the table pretty soon. "Utter shit. His poetry's cliché, there's far too much use of extended metaphor, and I've heard the poor bloke's ugly, to top it all off. She won't run off with him, and even if she did, she'd be back within two minutes, traumatized by bad literature and horrific features." 

The bartender chuckles and pours Louis another shot. So if Louis can keep him laughing, maybe it won't be too bad of a night. 

 

Louis hears Niall before he sees him. Thirty minutes have passed, and Louis is still perched on his stool, thumbing through the book and reading some of, what he considers to be, the shittiest poems. The bartender relegated him to water shots after the third tequila, because he was "looking very tipsy" and "you wouldn't want the night to end prematurely, mate. Or with a stomach pump." But Louis nearly does want that. He might get to see Liam at the hospital that way. At least then he wouldn't be by himself. But then, entering through his hazy consciousness, Louis hears Niall's most distinguishable characteristic: his laugh. 

 

It's loud, and obnoxious, and so fucking great to hear. Louis stands up on his stool, balancing his heels on the rung. He narrows his eyes and peers into the crowd, searching for Niall amongst all the people. He spies a blonde head bobbing through the crowd, surrounded by other people all chattering away to him, and nearly falls to the ground in his haste to get Niall's attention. Louis waves a hand above his head, calling as loudly as he can. 

"Niall!" he half shouts. "Nialler! Oi, you big dickface, over here!" 

 

Niall's head snaps up, and he makes quick eye contact with Louis, beaming widely. Louis vaguely wonders why his own name didn't register with him, but "you big dickface" did, and then decides not to dwell on it. Niall comes toward Louis, the people around him parting like they're the Red Sea and he's bloody Moses. Louis jumps down from his stool, throwing money onto the bar for the bartender to find, and heads towards Niall, ready to chew him out for not locating Louis earlier. Just as Louis gets close enough to Niall to vocalize his displeasure, Niall throws his arms open and attacks Louis in a bear-hug. 

"Louis!!" he screeches into Louis' ear, his voice already hoarse from talking too much. "Glad you could make it, man!" 

Louis is suffocating against Niall's warm chest, and he weakly beats at Niall's shoulder to get out of his embrace. Obliging as ever, Niall lets him go, still grinning like an idiot. He clearly hasn't noticed how pissed Louis is. 

"Glad I could make it?" Louis repeats disbelievingly, straightening his now rumpled shirt. "I've been here for forty-five minutes! Where the bloody hell were you?" 

"Oh, sorry, mate. We got stuck in traffic on the way from Gemma's house. The road was totally backed up." Niall responds, sounding genuinely apologetic. 

"Right." Louis says sarcastically. "Traffic. Nice cherry red lipstick you've got on your neck, by the way. Brings out your eyes." 

Niall's eyes widen with horror, and he looks down, taking in the lipstick marks up and down his neck. He rubs at them hurriedly, only getting more panicked as the makeup then winds up on his fingers. The abject terror on his face cracks Louis' stony expression, and he laughs, because seriously, could Niall be any less subtle? 

"I told her ages ago to stop wearing that shit, Jesus goddamn Christ." Niall groans, scrubbing at his neck like he wants to take off his skin along with the lipstick. "Harry can't see, he'll have my fuckin' head, and obviously Gemma's wearing the exact same color, so everybody'll know it was her." 

"It's not that bad." Louis says, stifling a giggle at Niall's glare. "They don't look like kisses anymore, it's more like you've got a sunburn over your entire neck." 

"That doesn't make me feel any better!" Niall whispers shrilly, looking around himself and ducking his head. "As it's the 1st of February!" 

"Well, you shouldn't have kissed her then." Louis says, gently admonishing him. Not that he can't understand, of course, but Niall really shouldn't be toying with the poor girl like this. They'd decided they couldn't be together, and that had to be that. It'd hurt them both too much if it wasn't. 

"She kissed me." Niall mumbles back, his lips barely moving. "Pounced on me in the taxi and refused to let me go until we were nearly out of the car. I tried to get her to stop, but-but it's Gemma. I can't get her to do anything." 

 

He sounds so hopeless, that Louis can't help but feel bad for him. He reaches over to Niall's neck and gently wipes what remains of the lipstick away, getting his fingers all sticky. Niall looks at him gratefully, pulling him back into another hug, and this time, Louis feels his body melding into against Niall's, leaning into the embrace. He hooked his chin on Niall's shoulder, shutting his eyes briefly. This was...nice. Niall was nice. 

"Where is the bane of your life then?" Louis asks when they'd broken apart from the hug, beginning to push their way back towards the bar. (He figures Niall could use a drink, he looks pretty shook up.) "I'd like to see her again." 

"She's over here, actually." Niall says. "Getting a round of drinks. Not that she'll be drinking, she prefers chocolate milk to anything else...." 

"Is she getting a round for this entire joint?" Louis wonders, looking around them with wide eyes. "Considering that everyone seems to be here for the party/rave thingy?" 

"Yeah, I kinda didn't set any restrictions on who came." Niall says nonchalantly. "I told my friends, which are a lot, and they told their friends, and now we're all here. But it means a better night for Harry overall, and more presents, and who doesn't want that? But yeah, Gemma is probably just getting drinks for me, herself, Harry, Ed, Josh, Grimmy...and you, obviously. She's super excited to see you again, wouldn't shut up about it-" 

"I'm sure you shut her up nicely." Louis says drly and Niall reddens, becoming the same shade as the lipstick. He darts his way through a horde of people, grabbing Louis by his wrist and tugging him along. They shove a path through people with varying levels of sobriety, Louis narrowly avoiding being groped by some grungy looking girl. And finally, they reach the bar, ending up at the exact same stool Louis had been sitting on before. Unfortunately, the nice bartender from earlier must've gone on break, because it's now some guy with a couple piercings and a tattoo creeping up his neck. Louis tries to fight the urge to wrinkle his nose in distaste. 

 

Gemma is there, of course, looking utterly gorgeous in a silvery-gray sweater and lacy white shorts. She's dyed her hair again, now it's blonde with dark brown at the roots. She's smiling mischievously, looking as impish as ever. Her cherry lipstick is immaculate on her lips, and Louis stifles a laugh. She must've dashed to the toilet in order to fix it so quickly. 

"Louis!" she exclaims happily, opening her arms to him for a hug. "Lovely to see you!!" 

They hug, Louis smelling her perfume on her neck. It's flowery and sweet, making his eyes water slightly. She pulls back, smiling gently at him as she flicks her hair over her shoulder, sending another burst of fragrance in his direction. He's never understood girls. Do they attract boys by smelling nice? Louis' reverie on the mating habits of females is broken as Gemma motions for the people around her to introduce themselves to Louis. 

 

Over the next ten minutes, Louis meets a lot of people. He meets Ed, the redhead songwriter/guitarist who's got the faintest trace of an Irish accent. He's funny, making Louis laugh more than a few times in the brief minutes that they talked. And Louis can sense the spirit of a poet about him, that yearning of a soul to be understood. It's no wonder he writes songs. Then Louis meets Josh, who's quieter, but still friendly in his own way. He's constantly tapping his hands against the wood of the bar, and Louis chuckles. A true drummer, then. 

 

Yes, Louis meets a lot of people, but he doesn't meet one person in particular, which confuses him. He still hasn't clapped eyes on the birthday boy, the reason that any of them are here at all. He has yet to meet Harry Styles, and Louis can't deny that his interest is piqued about the guy. He seems like something special to all these people, and Louis wants to know what exactly it is about him that makes him so beloved. Eventually, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he nudges Niall's side, drawing his attention from staring at Gemma. 

"Where's Harry?" Louis asks, trying to sound noncommittal as he shows Niall the book, still in his hand. "I'd like to give this to him before we get covered in paint." 

"Oh sick, man! You listened to my suggestions about the presents, which nobody ever does! But yeah, Harry's around here somewhere. I know he came in with me..." Niall says, his voice slowly dropping off as he scans the crowd, looking for his friend. He turns to Gemma, gently tapping her shoulder. 

"Where's Haz?" he asks quietly, and Gemma says something unintelligible back. But whatever it is, it gets a reaction out of Niall. He huffs out a frustrated breath and rolls his eyes, shaking his head. 

"Of course. There's people here, waiting to meet him, and he's with that wanker-"

Louis leans in closer, trying to catch what Gemma responds with. He focuses his eyes on her lips, and manages to read them somewhat. 

"He's not really a wanker, Ni. I know you and I don't really like him, but he seems to make Harry happy-" 

"He better fucking make him happy." Niall grumbles, louder than he probably intended to be. "If not, I'll chop off his dick, since that's the only part of him that's at all useful." 

 

Both Gemma and Louis burst out laughing, Louis managing to hide it in his drink, some fruity concoction that Gemma ordered for him. Whatever it was, he's enjoying it. Gemma fares worse though. She giggles so much that she nearly topples out of her stool, and Niall is just beginning to put a hand on her back to steady her, when the grimy bartender lunges over the bar, holding onto Gemma's waist and keeping her in place. Both Niall and Louis notice that his hands linger for much longer than necessary, though. 

"You alright, poppet?" he asks, giving Gemma a rugged smile, and he's still fucking touching her, guiding her hands back to hold onto the bar. Louis wants to punch the prick in the face. He's got way more brotherly instincts for Gemma than he realized. 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm grand." Gemma says in response, sounding breathless. 

"Good. Wouldn't want a pretty thing like you cracking her skull open on this disgusting floor." 

 

Louis can feel Niall positively vibrating with rage beside him. His hands are clenched into fists by his sides, and he glares at the bartender, his face like a thundercloud. Louis almost shrinks away from his gaze, even though it isn't directed at him. But the fucker doesn't notice: he's too busy trying to get a quick glimpse down Gemma's top as he chats her up. Niall is breathing heavily, biting down so hard on his bottom lip that it begins to bleed. The bartender has just reached over to graze his fingers down Gemma's arm when Niall snaps. He shoves his hands away, putting an arm around Gemma's waist and forcibly pulling her out of the stool. He then grabs Louis by the hem of his shirt, tugging him along too. 

"Come on." he says shortly, his words clipped from anger. "We're going outside." 

 

Niall basically drags the two of them out of there, Louis going much more willingly than Gemma. The crowd seems to notice Niall's agitation, so they part, making it easy for them to reach the door. Niall roughly kicks it open with his foot, grumbling under his breath. And then they're out in the cold, Louis shivering as the air hits him. He hunches over, watching Gemma look at Niall, and suddenly wishing he was anywhere but here to witness this. They both seem to have forgotten he was there at all though, being too busy watching each other. 

"What the fuck, Niall?" Gemma spits out, her teeth clenched. "What the fuck was that?" 

"He was bothering you." Niall says gruffly, looking at the ground and kicking the concrete. 

"It is not _fucking_ up to you to decide what is and isn't bothering me. And then carting me out of there, like I'm a bloody doll that a kid stole from you on the playground. You're such a child!" 

"Gemma, that guy was a fucking creep!" Niall bursts back, his voice getting louder. "Putting his grubby hands all over you, without any type of consent, fucking gross-"

"You don't own me, Niall!" Gemma nearly shouts, tugging at her hair. "And you've made it perfectly clear that you don't want to, considering you barely kissed me back in the taxi. I'm not yours, and you're not mine. Stop acting like a jealous boyfriend when you won't even be my boyfriend, for fuck's sake!" 

 

Gemma falls silent, looking exhausted as she slumps over. Niall just stands there, clenching his jaw so tightly that the veins in his neck stick out. Louis flattens himself against the wall, trying to blend in with his surrounds. He really, really shouldn't have come. Gemma shivers as the wind blows again, blustering all around them. She rans her hands up and down her bare thighs, mumbling out a curse. And then, quick as a blink, Niall is slipping his arms out of his jacket, walking over to Gemma and putting it around her shoulders, buttoning up the front diligently. 

"Niall, no-" she protests, voice weak and sad as she tries to brush Niall's hands away and take the coat off again. But he refuses to be deterred, continuing until every button is fastened. 

"Told you not to wear shorts." he says affectionately, way more affectionately than anyone would expect him to be, given the fact that Gemma basically just cursed him out of it. 

"Yeah, well." Gemma responds, looking at her feet. "I'm shit at listening to you, it seems." 

 

They fall silent, not looking at one another. Louis holds his breath, wondering what's going to happen next. This is better than _Downton_ bloody _Abbey_. They glance at each other once more, and then both of them are stumbling over their words, trying to be the first to say it. 

"I'm sorry Ni-" 

"I'm sorry Gems-" 

 

They laugh breathlessly, shaking their heads at one another hopelessly. Niall just shrugs, his eyes unbelievably fond as he looks at the girl he's in love with. Louis could practically feel the love radiating from his very being. 

"Well, let's just agree to be sorry, and say nothing else about it." he whispers, brushing a lock of Gemma's hair from out of her eyes and behind her ear. She leans into the touch for a moment, and Louis feels his heart leap, because he looks like he's gonna kiss her. Louis wants him to kiss her so much, godammit. _Kiss her kiss her kiss her_ he chants in his head. _Niall, you dumbass, kiss her._

 

Niall has leaned in to presumably do just that, when the front door of the pub swings open. Louis can't see the new arrival from his current position (ie. glued to the stone wall), but whoever it is puts terror in the faces of both Niall and Gemma. They scramble away from each other, Gemma hurriedly unbuttoning Niall's jacket and flinging back toward him. She turns and goes up the steps of the pub, going to talk with whoever has appeared. Niall slips the jacket on, letting out a trembly breath, and then goes over to Louis, hauling him out of the corner and bringing him back to the front door of the pub. 

"Louis!" he false booms, clearly putting on more bravado than he feels. "Harry's right up here, why don't we go say hi? You wanted to meet him, yeah? To give him the book?" 

Louis nods, feeling like he'd be clubbed over the head. These people move too fast for him. He glances down and see that his book is still clenched in his hand, and hadn't been lost yet. And that's all the break Louis gets before Niall is ushering him up the steps, towards the person that all this nonsense has been over. 

 

They approach slowly, Louis managing to make it up the slick stairs without falling and landing on his ass like an idiot. Gemma is standing in the doorway, talking to Harry. As they get closer, Louis narrows his eyes to get a better look at him. He's tall, all gangly limbs that he doesn't yet seem properly grown into, even at twenty. He's wearing tight-fitting black jeans, clunky boots, and a white polo that clings to his biceps like it was spray-painted on. Even from where he is, Louis can see that Harry has a headfull of brown curls, that currently look like he tried to control them and gave up halfway through. They're a mess in some spots, springing up all over the place, but flattened in others, like he'd actually run a comb through them at some point. 

 

Louis doesn't feel quite prepared. Whoever this Harry guy is, whatever he's like, as of right now, he just seems like...too much. Too much for Louis to cope with, in a night that's already been exhausting and it hasn't even really begun yet. He almost wants to run away, but Niall's firm hand on his back guides him forward, until they've reached the brother and sister, in what feels like no time at all. 

 

The four of them stand in silence for a couple seconds, nobody really sure who should speak first. Louis can feel the stranger's eyes on him, looking him up and down, surveying him. He can't hack looking back yet, so he doesn't, instead stared firmly at the faded blue cover of _Reflections_. 

"Harry," Niall begins cheerily, "This is Louis. I met him a gig a few weeks back, like I told you? Anyway, I pestered and pestered him enough until he came tonight, so here he is!" 

 

Steeling himself, Louis looks up, seeing Harry's face for the first time. He inhales sharply at the sight, because what a sight it is. He looks like he's carved out of marble, for one thing: his ivory skin making a sharp contrast against the chocolate brown of his hair. Harry's got high cheekbones that look sharp enough to cut yourself on, and rosy lips, pressed together into a perfect kiss. His cheeks are pink too, not quite as pink as Niall's. But pink nonetheless, a faint tinge that's just noticeable. Delicate eyelashes are curled against the skin around his eye....his eyes. 

 

Wide, heavy-lidded eyes. 

 

Emerald green eyes. 

 

Intelligent, mocking eyes. 

 

Eyes that Louis _knows_. 

 

The librarian. 

 

Harry Styles. Niall's best friend. Gemma's little brother. Librarian at the Royal London Library. 

 

_Maybe it's not him._ Louis thinks to himself as Harry just looks at him and Niall, his expression thoughtful. He seems like he's trying to place where he's seen Louis before, and Louis cringes at the memory, feeling the ache in his foot where he'd dropped the book on it. _Green eyes like his aren't that uncommon. I'm sure there's plenty of people who love books with big green eyes, exactly like the ones studying me right now. Yep. Totally. I fucking hate my life._

 

"Ah, yes, I do remember you mentioning him." Harry says at last, his voice impossibly deep and laced with suppressed amusement. He turns to Louis and offers him his hand to shake. Louis gulps shallowly, taking Harry's hand and wringing it up and down weakly. His grip is firm, clenching Louis' palm tightly, but his fingers are cold. 

"Lovely to meet you." Harry quips, a small smile lingering on his mouth. Louis doesn't know if he's imagining the amused glint in Harry's eyes, but he fervently hopes he is. Maybe he doesn't remember. Maybe strangers embarrass themselves in front of him in the library every day and Louis just blends in with the rest of the poor sods. Maybe Louis is going to collapse from a heart attack before Harry realizes that they've met before. Given how hard and how painfully fast his heart is beating right now, Louis can't rule that possibility out. 

 

"Happy birthday." Louis bursts out, shoving _Reflections_ into Harry's large hands. The boy's slim fingers coil around Louis' wrist as he takes the book from him, resting the pads of his fingers against Louis' skin, right on his pulse. Louis jolts at the contact, not expecting it, and he blushes, feeling his cheeks redden. "I heard you like books, and,-" 

 

Louis' voice drops off quickly, because obviously he likes books, if he works at the biggest library in London. Louis isn't even supposed to know that fact, except unfortunately, he fucking does. Feeling hysteria over his situation bubble up in his chest, Louis offers Harry a limp smile, shrugging his shoulders. "And I hope you'll like this one." 

Harry's studying the book, turning it over in his hands and opening the front cover. He reads the first page, eyes narrowing, and Louis' stomach twists, because no, he's not meant to start reading right this fucking second. Plus, the first page is the dedication, which "Gregory Stone" had thrown in at the last minute and regretted every minute since. 

 

_To my family_

 

"To my family." Harry reads aloud, then shutting the book with a snap. "Bit of an odd choice of dedication, is it not?" 

"I- I suppose?" Louis says, surprised at how direct he was. Usually, people hold back their thoughts on a birthday present until after the party, and don't voice them to the actual person who gave them the gift. At least, anyone Louis has ever encountered does: anyone with manners does. Beside Harry, Gemma is fidgeting uncomfortably, her expression tense. She turns marginally to her brother, biting down on her bottom lip with worry. 

"I mean, hopefully all this love poetry isn't about his family, that'd be rather- _incestous_." Harry continues with a shrug, passing the book from one hand to another steadily. Louis tracks the movement, irritation coursing through him like blood. Who the fuck is this guy and where does he get off, thinking he can be so blatantly rude?

"Yeah, it would be, wouldn't it." Louis retorts sharply. "Thankfully, it's not about his family, I don't think." 

"How would you know that, though?" Harry asks, tilting his head to the side, as if he was actually pondering the fucking question. "This book is written under a pseudonym, correct? Or did I read that wrong?" 

"Harry-" Gemma says, her voice weak. She puts a hand on his elbow, and her brother turns to look at her, his expression unreadable. A silent communication passes between them, spoken through the narrowing of Harry's eyes and Gemma's grip on him tightening, and then he's all smiles, amiable and friendly. 

"Well, thank you, anyway." he says, artfully wrangling his arm out of Gemma's grasp and taking a step backward from them. "Now, you all should go downstairs to the party, and I'll meet you there. I'm going to put this down somewhere." 

"Why?" Niall asks as Harry turns on his booted heels and begins to walk away. 

"Oh, you know." Harry says vaguely, pausing to look back at them. A few of his curls are falling down in front of his face, half-covering his eyes, but Louis can still see them glimmering with mirth. Here, he looks directly at Louis, a smirk stretching across his face. 

"Wouldn't wanna drop it on my foot or something." 

 

Louis flushes from his head to his feet, his entire face bright pink. Harry turns back around and strides away, not saying goodbye to any of them. Louis lets out a harsh breath, folding his arms over his chest in discomfort because seriously, what the fuck was that? With every second he stands there, his embarassment eases, but his anger builds. He wants to punch something, feels too big for his skin: that arsehole managed to rub Louis up wrong, in every possible way. Niall clears his throat awkwardly, and Gemma looks at Louis, her eyes imploring. Except now, Louis isn't endeared by the big, doe-eyed look, because apparently, it's a Styles family trait. In fact, Harry and Gemma are the spitting image of each other. 

 

_There's something "incestous" for you_. Louis thinks smugly, itching to say it. He almost does, the words are on the tip of his tongue, but he looks at Gemma again, and deflates. Because her eyes are still her eyes, she's still Gemma, and she shouldn't be punished for things she didn't say. 

"I don't know what's gotten into him tonight, Louis, I'm so sorry-" Gemma begins, sounding utterly dejected. "He's usually much better behaved than that, I don't understand-" 

Niall coughs, as if holding back a laugh, and Louis glances at him, seeing his lips move. He listens more intently to Niall's mumbling, and makes out, 

"Well, I bloody do, and it's that fucking Grimshaw-" 

"We all have our off days, Gemma." Louis says loudly, overpowering what Niall just said. "Maybe today is Harry's. It's not a problem. Now, why don't we go downstairs to this ravage thing? 'M freezing out here." 

Gemma smiles hesitantly, nodding and then going down the steps. Niall grabs Louis by the arm and holds him back from following her. He looks at him seriously, his blue eyes somber.

"Thank you." he says firmly, hugging Louis quickly. "Not many people could be as gracious as you just were. And I'll give Harry a right telling off when I see him next. The eejet has to learn he can't treat people that way-" 

 

Louis definitely isn't a connoisseur of speech patterns or anything: he prefers the written word to the spoken. But he's figured out something about how both Niall and Gemma talk about Harry. They speak about him as if he's a misbehaved dog. A puppy that did something wrong and needs to be punished for it, even if you don't want to. And as soon as he comes back to you, head bowed and tail between his legs, you forgive him, because nobody can resist those puppy eyes. 

 

It's not an analogy Louis particularly likes. But then again, he hadn't particularly liked the person either. 

 

"Come on Nialler, let's go lose my rave virginity." Louis says, throwing an arm around Niall's shoulders and guiding him down the steps. "Tell me they've got tequila." 

Niall smiles and nods, some of his discomfort easing. Louis decides to just forget the meeting he'd just had. He was gonna go smother himself in paint, possibly blow out both his eardrums, and have a good rest of the night. With any luck, he wouldn't see Harry Styles again. Tonight, or ever. 

 

 

Always true to his word, Louis is covered head to toe in neon paint an hour later. He's also hammered drunk, which he's sure he'll regret in the morning. But as of right now, things are pretty fucking great. Louis knocks back another shot that somebody passed his way, feeling the alcohol burn his throat as it goes down. He purses his lips together, wincing at the taste. He leans against the table that Niall had declared theirs within five minutes of being at the rave, and shuts his eyes. He's still able to feel the strobe lights flashing behind his closed eyelids. 

 

Louis' having more fun that he expected. Sure, his entire body is sticky (Paint and glitter had been dumped on them as soon as they'd arrived) which is vaguely disconcerting, but other than that, it's been great. He danced with Niall for ages, and that had been entertaining enough on its own, because Niall, God bless him, cannot dance. Louis is pretty sure he was attempting to do an Irish jig at one point, without much success. Gemma pops up occasionally too, checking up on them both. She doesn't seem drunk at all, and whenever she comes over, she'll swap out whatever Niall or Louis is drinking with a water bottle. Niall's, however, is always tempered with a soft caress to his cheek and a gentle "Stay hydrated, yeah?" Louis is pretty sure she's also warning off whatever girls look Niall's way with her affection, but he can't really blame her. 

 

The music is pounding in Louis' temples: a steady _boom boom boom_ that he feels rattling in his bones. He hasn't recognized a single song yet, because most of it is intelligible techno, dominated by a strong bass. A far cry from Ingrid Michaelson. Louis gulps back some water from a bottle sitting on the table and then bounds back into the dancing, elbowing his way through the crowd. 

"Ni?" Louis bellows. "Horan? Where the fuck are ya?" 

"Over here!" Niall's voice calls back, and Louis follows it blindly, turning to the right. He finds him next to Ed, and if possible, he's even more of a mess than he was when Louis vacated the dance floor. Niall's entire body is bright green, glimmers of his blonde hair shining through it on his head. It looks like he's got the tribal paint from _The Lion King_ on his forehead, and his clothes are a fucking travesty. They're ripped, half off his body, and Louis knows they'll never be white again. 

"Having fun?" Louis asks over the roar of the music, and Niall nods, grinning wickedly. He lunges toward Louis, engulfing him in his arms and getting the green paint all over him. He even rubs his face in Louis' hair, and fuck no, nobody endangers Louis Tomlinson's locks. 

"Wanker!" Louis says jovially as Niall lets him go, unable to give a shit. "Wanker of all wankers." 

Niall extends his arms and takes a bow, leaning down at the waist and flourishing his hands up in the air. He nods his thanks, taking Louis' hands and pumping it up and down, and Louis just laughs. 

"I'd like to thank the Academy for this honor. Wanker of all wankers! I have worked and worked for years to earn this position-" 

"Jesus Christ, save it for your first Grammy." Louis says and Niall chuckles, shaking his head doubtfully. He looks around, staring at all the people, and Louis assumes he's looking for Gemma, until he says, 

"D'ya know if Liam made it? Haven't seen him around yet." 

"Nah, I don't think so, mate." Louis responds apologetically, rubbing at some of the paint dripping down into his eyes. "He had his first surgery tonight, I'm prayin' he survived the bloody thing-" 

"LOUIS." a voice shouts, and Louis' head snaps up, because if there's any voice he knows, it's that one. Then he's forcing his way back through everyone dancing, desperate to reach him. Because Liam's here, and Liam must be magic, if he arrived just as Louis was missing him most. 

 

"LOU." Liam repeats, sounding like he was going to die from excitement. Louis darts past a grinding couple, skidding on some spilled paint on the floor. He sees Liam standing on the dance floor, his head above all the other people, searching from him. He's still in his fucking scrubs. 

 

Emotion at the sight bursts through Louis' chest, giving his feet wings. He sprints towards Liam, his head feeling like it's going to left right off his shoulders. He needs to see him, to touch him, to talk to him about what was undoubtedly the greatest moment of his life so far. Liam finally catches sigh of Louis, the two of them making eye contact, and he beams, his entire face looking like it's going to split in half. And then they collide, their bodies slamming together into a hug that Louis never wants to get out of. He tucks his head into Liam's neck, inhaling. He must've showered, because he smells like Liam, and not a hospital. Liam Mode. Thank fuck for small mercies. 

"I _cut open_ a human being tonight." Liam screeches, pulling back from Louis and looking at him, his entire face shining with uninhibited joy. His eyes are shining with a fervor that Louis hasn't seen in them for a long time. He looks the way he did when he first put on his doctor's white coat: driven, intelligent, powerful. Beautiful. He looks so bloody beautiful, and Louis wants to kiss his gorgeous face off. 

"Dr. Lee let me do the incision." Liam babbles, his words tripping over each other. "She handed me the scalpel and told me to get to it, and I did it. I fucking did it _perfectly_ and I got that little girl's appendix out and because of me, she's going to be fine. She's going to be wonderful, and she'll barely have a scar, because I'm bloody ace at suturing: fuck, this is the biggest rush of my entire life, because I fucking just cut open a _person_ , fixed what was wrong with them, and sewed them back together. I did that!" 

"Damn right you did!" Louis crows proudly. "I had every faith in you, knew you'd have no trouble flying solo." 

Liam' s face softens, and he leans into Louis again, mumbling something against his neck. Louis can't hear him properly, so he taps his shoulder, beckoning him to speak again, so Liam says, 

"I became a surgeon today." 

His voice sounds so tentative, but so proud, and so ecstatic. Louis feels tears burn his eyes, because this, this moment, is all Liam has ever wanted. He studied for years, and he drives himself into the ground daily, and Louis constantly wonders why. Why he does it, how he does, what it's all for. But on the dance floor, he begins to get it. Liam's a doctor because it makes him happy. It's what makes him happier than anything else on the planet, and Louis is just so glad that _something_ makes Liam happy, even if it's not him. 

"You were always a surgeon, Liam." he whispers back, and Liam bites his lip bashfully, shaking his head. A few moments later, Liam looks down, seeming to take in the paint over Louis' entire being. He tilts his head to the side, studying him, and then asks, 

"Is that all natural-based paint? No artificials and stuff?" 

"What?" Louis says in confusion, wondering when the moment ended, and Liam shrugs, reaching over and wiping some of the paint off Louis' eyelids. 

"You've got sensitive skin, I don't want you to have an allergic reaction or something.

And then Louis laughs until he cries, the tears striking his blue face. Because that question is just so typically Liam, and of course he'd ask it, after the best experience of his whole life. Liam giggles too, unable to stop smiling, and then Louis goes to get them both drinks, because if he stays there a single second longer, he'd definitely kiss his surgeon. 

 

Louis wanders over to the bar, grabbing two pints of Guiness and bringing one to his mouth, taking a sloppy gulp. _Ack_ : he's drinking this after listening to Niall's fevered recommendations all night, but Christ on crutches, it's like drinking pure petrol. The thick foam coats his throat and he coughs, cursing under his breath. There's no way Liam'll drink this, so Louis turns back to the bar to get him something else, but it's suddenly been swamped by people, paint splattered bodies clamoring for martinis. That's too exhausting to even contemplate, so Louis decides to head back to the table and just wait it out. 

 

Louis reaches the table and hops up on it, leaning his head on his elbows and watching the dancing crowd. He can't make much out, everything's sparkly and smothered in paint, but it's definitely pretty, in a _We're young and we're dumb and we're making memories_ kind of way. 

"We're young and we're dumb and we're making memories." Louis says under his breath, grinning suddenly because he really fucking likes that line. So much so, that he grabs a napkin on the table, searching his pockets for a pen to write it down. It's been so long since he's written anything that the action feels almost foreign. Unfortunately, he can't find a writing utensil, but Louis has always been creative, so he dips his finger into some paint pooled on his shirt. Then he messily finger-paints the line on the napkin, folding it over carefully and putting it in his pocket. 

 

Satisfied, Louis puts his head back down, noticing Niall push his way out of the crowd. He smiles, expecting him to come over and talk to him, but he must not have seen Louis, because then Niall turns, his blonde head bobbing through the people. He walks over to the right of the table, about five feet away. Louis narrows his eyes, because he can hear Niall speaking, but who the bloody hell is he talking to? Louis can't see anyone at all. 

 

But then the person responds, and Louis stiffens automatically. He's only heard that deep voice once, but it definitely left a mark. Niall's talking to Harry. Louis leans his chin on his hand, peering in more closely. In the dark, Louis can faintly see that Harry's leaned against the wall, one of his feet propped up against it. His arms are folded over his chest, and he looks exactly the same as he did earlier. He looks immaculate: there's no paint on him, he's not sweaty and glitter-covered, he doesn't even look drunk. Has he even been dancing at all? 

"Have you been on the dance floor yet, Harry?" Niall demanded to know. "Why're you just standing here?" 

"Just- observing the festivities." Harry says simply, gesturing lazily at the crowd, his hand movement languid. "It's rather amusing, you should join me." 

"C'mon, Haz, let's go dance." Niall wheedled. "It's really fun, I know you'd like it. And Louis' friend, Liam, is here and he wants to meet you-" 

"Oh, spare me from meeting more people." Harry responds, leaning his head back against the wall and shutting his eyes. "I've met so many tonight, I dunno how many times I've been wished a Happy Twentieth. Niall, did you know I'm not a teenager anymore? The fact quite escaped my notice." 

Niall chuckles despite himself, and Harry cracks open an eye, grinning. This seems to be the first true smile Louis has seen him give. Niall's face softens and he looks at his friend fondly. The puppy's out of the doghouse. 

"What'd'ya think of Louis, then?" he says off-handly. "Great, isn't he?" 

 

Louis tenses, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. He presses his palms against his eyes, feeling stars go off behind them. He doesn't want to hear this, can't hear this. Louis doesn't know what Harry thinks of him, but he definitely knows he doesn't think Louis' great. And Heaven help them all if Harry decides to tell Niall about their impromptu first meeting. Louis will drown himself in the paint cans. He should stop listening, run into the crowd and start dancing again, do anything to get away from whatever words Harry Styles is about to say. 

 

But he doesn't. 

 

Harry tilts his head to the side, pondering. Bringing a slender finger to his mouth, he taps it against his lips, the ring on his finger glimmering in the light of the dance floor. And then he opens his mouth to speak, the faintest trace of a smile grazing his lips. 

"He's tolerable, I suppose." Harry drawls, his words as idle as his body language. "A bit vapid for my tastes, but I can see why you like him." 

"Vapid?" Niall asks, his brow furrowing in confusion. He doesn't know the meaning of the word, but Louis certainly does. Unimaginative. Bland. Boring. Louis grits his teeth, feeling them grind against one another, and focuses more intently. Now he wants to hear everything Harry Styles has to say. 

"I think he's bloody fantastic." Niall says gruffly. "And you were very rude to him earlier, ya know. It was super nice, getting you that poetry book, he didn't have to do that-" 

"Wish he hadn't." Harry responds, arching an eyebrow. "I've read _Reflections_ already, didn't enjoy it the first time. It was flying off the shelves at the library, about a year ago, so I snuck it out one night and read the whole thing in one sitting. I wanted to see what all the hype was about, you know?" 

Here, Harry rolls his eyes, huffing out a breath that lifts his curls off his forehead. He looks frustrated, as if the very thought of the book aggravates him. 

"It didn't live up to the hype. Imagine every school-girl crush cliché in the book, put them into some shitty poems, and you've got Gregory Stone's book." he says with another eye roll. Louis hopes they fall out of his head. "Seriously, Ni, it's shite. Even the muse, the person he's writing the poems about, sounds humdrum." 

 

Niall's face falls, and he awkwardly swings his arms by his sides, giving a light shrug. He clasps his hands to his chest, looking at Harry beseechingly, his eyes big. 

"Please come dance, Harry. I want you to have some fun tonight." 

"You're wasting your time, Niall. Go back to whatever bird you were sucking face with." Harry says affectionately, pointing at the still visible lipstick marks on Niall's neck. Niall physically blanches at that, his face whitening beneath the neon lights of the rave. He nods hurriedly and then rushes away, throwing up a hand to wave at Harry. And then Harry's just left leaning against the wall, his arms crossed around his ribs, smiling like he knows something they all don't. 

 

Oh, Louis _hates_ him. 

 

He tried. He fucking tried, okay. Louis tried to give him the benefit of the doubt after their first official meeting and decide that Harry Styles wasn't a shitty person. Maybe he'd had a rough day, maybe he too was feeling the awkwardness from their library encounter, maybe Louis had come across as stand-offish. But now, he decides that it's maybe nothing. Except that maybe Harry is the worst person Louis has ever had the misfortune to meet. 

 

Niall was just trying to be a good friend and get the little shit to enjoy his own birthday celebration. And then he hadn't wanted to meet Liam! Liam Payne, the nicest person on the earth, who had literally just saved a life and was choosing to spend his precious free time at this aboslute shitheap of a party. And okay, Louis knows he makes fun of his own poetry all the time, he did it this very night to the bartender. And he also knows that some of what Harry said about _Reflections_ was even true (it'd all been said by poetry critics before). But something about this particular attack at his writing felt personal. Harry was a normal person, not a poetry specialist or anything, and usually normal people tend to fall in love with his poems. Not that Louis wants him to fall in love with it or anything, frankly he doesn't care if Harry uses his book to wipe his arse, but some common artistic respect would be nice. 

 

But his comment about the muse was what really set Louis on edge. Because he doesn't really care if his writing gets criticized, but as soon as the person he wrote about does, Louis sees red. Liam Payne is the opposite of humdrum. He's vibrant and he's fantastic and he's glorious. He works saving lives and he's inherently good and he's a million times the man that Harry Styles is, or will ever be. Louis sorta wants to slam _Reflections_ into Harry's face over and over again, until he understands that fact. But then he takes a deep breath, calming himself. Broken noses are not good things. And breaking the nose of someone that everybody else seems to adore (for whatever fucking reason) is also not a good thing. 

 

Louis exhales slowly, feeling the tension in his shoulder abate. He opens his eyes and glances back over, seeing that Harry has sloped off somewhere. Probably to that grimy Grimmy person. Now that the chance for confrontation has passed, Louis needs to decide what he'll do next. And

it takes him all of two seconds to make that decision. 

 

He'll go find Liam again, because Liam makes things better. 

 

Hopping off the stool, he finishes the pint (Which he didn't even realize he'd been drinking. Maybe Guiness only tastes good when you're enraged) and then dives back into the crowd. He pushes his way over to where Liam and he had been dancing, but doesn't seen any sign of him. Frowning, Louis taps the shoulder of the girl next to him, a statuesque blonde with eyes like chocolate. 

"Hi, yeah, did you see a guy in hospital scrubs leave her recently?" he asks in a rush, feeling terrified. Where the fuck is he? "We were right here together not too long ago, but I seem to have lost track of him." 

"I think he headed to the toilets." the girl responds, and Louis nods his thanks, pushing his way through the crowd. He manages to make it to the opposite side of the room without suffocating, thankfully. Off to his left are some grimy looking toilets, and Louis stifles a smile. Liam, being as germ conscious as he is, is probably having a melt down in there and is cleaning every square inch. Louis pushes open the "Men's" door, Liam's name on his lips. 

 

And then the words die in Louis' throat. Because Liam is definitely not scrubbing the floors with a toothbrush. He's pinned between the wall and some guy's body, which usually should be alarming, but in this case, it's not. Because Liam isn't being beaten to a pulp: he's being kissed. Very enthusiastically. And judging by his reaction, he's clearly feeling the same enthusiasm. 

 

Louis has about ten seconds until he bursts into tears. As it is, he clears his throat loudly, because he's got at least 9.5 seconds left, and he's not spending them watching this. At the sound, the two guys spring away from each other, Louis' newest worst enemy smoothly running his hands through his already disheveled hair. Louis uses the few moments he has to take him in. The guy's wearing black skinny jeans and a paint splattered tank top. Except it doesn't look like fresh paint, it looks like it was painted on before, and then dried, and then painted on a million different times more. 

 

Eyes travelling upward, Louis feels his breath catch as he takes in this guy's face. Angular cheekbones are beneath wide, soulful brown eyes, framed by the longest lashes Louis has ever seen. His plump lips are in a tiny, puckered smile, black scruff scattered around his chin and cheeks. And he's looking directly at Liam, his gaze soft and calm. 

 

Liam, on the other hand, is totally unkempt. His hair is mussed, and hi scrubs, so clean earlier, are not covered in glow paint. But it too looks purposeful, as if it was artfully done, and if Louis was closer, he could see the design. But what hurts Louis the most about Liam's current appearance is his mouth. It's rubbed red and raw from kissing, and it's stretched into the biggest smile Louis has ever seen Liam give. It _hurts_.

 

"Lou!" Liam says excitedly, looking at him with shining eyes. "Hi! How're you? Good? This party is great, right? I feel fucking great!" 

"Yeah." Louis says stiffly. "Didn't know where you were, go a bit worried." 

"Oh!" Liam responds, not noticing Louis' severity. "Well, I was here. With Zayn." 

He beckons to the dark haired guy, who smiles warmly at Louis, offering him his hand. Steeling himself, Louis shakes it, wanting to get the fuck out of there. He can already see where this is going, and he doesn't want to be around for when it does. 

"Zayn Malik." he supplies, betraying a thick Bradford accent, and Louis nods tensely. 

"Louis." he says, managing a weak smile. 

"Ah, so you're Louis, then?" he says. "Liam was telling me about you." 

 

_He better fucking have been!_ Louis screams internally, wanting to rip off his skin. _I'm his best friend of four years, and you're te grungy guy he picked up at a rave. I wonder who he has more affection for._ Louis raises his eyebrows, fighting an eye roll. Liam suddenly grabs his arm, getting his attention and unknowingly easing the silent tension in the room. 

"Lou, look what Zayn did!" he babbles, pointing down at his scrubs. Louis narrows his eyes and looks closer. Past all the swirls and flourishes of paint, he can see the design clearly now: it's bones and organs and veins, all done in glowing neon paint. 

"Cuz I'm a doctor." Liam continues proudly. "I told him about the appendectomy, and he had this great idea, because he's a painter. Brilliant, innit?" 

"Brilliant." he says woodenly, as Zayn looks at Liam proudly. The thought of this stranger's hands going up and down Liam's body, even if he was only painting, is making his stomach turn. And they're making moon eyes at each other, and Louis needs to go, this needs to stop. Because this isn't the first time this has happened, and Louis knows it won't be the last, but it still causes him immeasurable pain. 

 

This is the norm: Liam does this every time. He falls in love with someone new every day, and then the next morning it's over. He acts like nothing happened, and Louis never says anything, and this is Liam's way. 24 hour infatuation, and then he's back to normal, and Louis is waiting for him at home. 

 

"Let's go dance!" Liam says suddenly, looking at both Louis and Zayn wildly. "Let's go, let's go, let's go!" 

He turns to look at Louis beseechingly, eyes big. But Louis- Louis just can't. He could go one the dance floor with them, he could stop Zayn and Liam before they even start. Hell, after enough grinding, Louis could probably be snogging the painter himself. But he can't do it to Liam. Because that smile is just too beautiful to destroy. Sure, part of it is front his surgery earlier, but Louis thinks it has a lot to do with the beautiful stranger standing in front of them. 

"Nah, I'll stay here." Liam says. "You two go." 

"You're sure?" Liam asks worriedly, and Louis nods quickly. 

"Yeah, Li Li, I am." he responds gently, sending his real smile to Liam. "I might catch up with you later, but if I don't, meet me in the pub upstairs at 3:00 AM." 

"Okay, Lou." Liam says, turning to Zayn and offering him his hand tentatively. But Zayn has no such retience. He grabs Liam's hands and holds on tightly, interlocking their fingers. Liam blushes pink, biting down on his bottom lip bashfully.

"I love dancing." he bursts out as they leave, because when Liam's nervous, he can't hold his tongue. "I really, really love dancing." 

 

As soon as they're gone, Louis breaks. He collapses against the wall, feeling weak-kneed. Gasping, he presses a hand to his chest, holding back tears. Louis clenches his jaw tightly, feeling his entire body shake.

"Not fair, not fair, not fair." he chants uselessly, feeing himself start to cry. "It's not fair, it's not _fucking_ fair." 

He scrubs at his cheeks with the back of his hand roughly. Reaching a shaking hand towards his hair, he runs it through it, twisting the locks around his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he slowly let's it out, trying to regain control of himself. 

"I'm his best friend of four years." Louis whispers, his voice cracking. "But it's the happiest night of his life, and I'm not dancing with him." 

 

Soon after, Louis leaves the rave. Because he can't go home, since he's waiting for Liam, he goes back up to the pub upstairs, sitting in the same stool as earlier. The friendly bartender from earlier is back, and he glances at Louis sympathetically as he wipes down the bar with a towel. 

"Tequila?" he asks Louis' bowed head, and then Louis sits up from where he was resting his head on his forearms. The bartender is watching at him worriedly, his brow furrowed, and Louis' heart aches because this complete stranger cares. 

"It'd be on the house." he adds, and Louis chuckles, shaking his head regretfully. 

"Thank you mate, but I can't." he says, leaning down on his arm again. The bartender nods, opening a drawer and pulling out a couple towels. He folds them over and over on themselves and then pushes the stack towards Louis.

"Here's, that's a makeshift pillow for you." he says. "I figured it'd be comfier than your bony arms." 

"Again, thanks, mate." Louis says, pulling the towels towards him and resting his head on the padding. It's surprisingly softer than he expected, and within thirty seconds, he's half asleep. As he drifts in and out of consciousness, he suddenly remembers something. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the napkin from earlier, reading the sloppy painted words. 

"We're young, and we're dumb, and we're making memories." he mumbles bitterly as he tosses the napkin to the ground. "What a crock of shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Now all the boys are introduced! Let the fun begin ;D


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"My sore throats are always worse than anyone's."_ Jane Austen, Persuasion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this new chapter got posted sooner than I expected! Is that a good or bad thing? XD Tell me how ya feel, kudos and comments are love :3

Louis is fairly sure that he's dying. With a fever of 42 Celsius, a headache worse than any hangover he's ever experienced, and a sore throat like broken glass (and not for the fun reason), it sure as hell feels like it. To make matters worse, Liam is currently beginning a 72 hour shift at the hospital, which Louis doubts is even fucking legal, so Louis doesn't even have the luxury of being babied by his doctor/roommate. He's alone, for the next three days, and Louis honestly doesn't know how he's gonna survive, because he can barely muster the energy to get off the bloody couch. 

"I want to die." Louis groans into the cushion, hauling the blanket further up his body. He can't stop shivering, but he's sweating bullets, and yep, Louis wants to die. He rarely gets sick, but when he does, Louis goes down hard. He's got a strong constitution, so he's usually back on his feet within a couple days, but those days are always a rough ride. Liam knows this, so he'd even considered skipping the first day of the shift and being with Louis for the worst of the sickness, but Louis made him go.   
"Your bitch of a boss will have your head if you're not in." Louis said that morning as Liam scurried around him, getting extra pillows and blankets. He paused from stocking the nearby coffee table with Paracetamol and water bottles and looked down at Louis seriously, his brow furrowing.   
"You're sure?" he said. "I can skip, say I've got a family emergency, which this could be seen as-"   
"I have a cold." Louis protested, internally yelling over the fact that Liam kinda just called him family. (Was it a good or bad thing? Louis didn't know.) "Just a little cold, I'll be good-"   
"All your symptoms indicate the flu." Liam said authoritatively, and Louis stifled a smile at his tone. Look at him diagnosing people.   
"Yeah, well, they're sorta similar, aren't they?" Louis responded, trying to lean up on his elbows, but then falling back flat on the sofa.  
"Not at all."   
"Look, the case of your life might come up today and I'd never forgive myself if you missed it because you were too busy playing nurse here."   
"Nurses are a vitally important part to the medical system, don't diss nurses." Liam said with a hint of a smile, tossing another blanket over Louis' body. "I can see that you're determined, so I'll go, but I can leave at a moment's notice. And keep your phone close, so I can text you on my breaks and see how you're doing."   
"Will do." Louis said with a feeble salute at Liam grabbed his jacket. The kettle whistled and he quickly poured Louis a cup of tea, leaving it to sit on the coffee table. Rushing to the DVD player, Liam scanned the stand of discs, and Louis tried his best not to admire his ass from where he laid on the couch. Not dead yet, Tomlinson, not dead yet. 

"There it is!" Liam said cheerily, popping a DVD into the player. He turned and looked back at Louis, smiling fondly. "This'll make you feel better."   
A familiar soundtrack filled the room, and Louis' eyes widened. He leaned to the side, looking at the TV screen, and yes, there was Colin Firth's gorgeous face, in all it's 1995 glory. The A&E miniseries of _Pride and Prejudice_ , in which not a single eyebrow twitch of a character in the book was forgotten. It was 6+ hours of television mastery, everything Jane Austen, and possibly the fittest actor to ever grace the screen in tight-fitting breeches.   
"You're my best friend." Louis said reverently as the doctor stepped backward and handed him the remote control.   
"Remember to drink a water bottle every two hours, at minimum." Liam reminded him as he left the house. "You're sweating out all your body fluids." 

 

That was over two hours ago, and right now, Louis is seriously regretting his decision of telling Liam to go to work. Sure, Mr. Darcy is great and all, but he can't really refill Louis' water bottles or bring him extra blankets or just keep him company. He's just been laying there, half of his attention on the DVD and the other half on the games on his cell phone. He beats his twentieth level of Bejeweled in a row and then tosses his phone into the couch cushion, groaning loudly. Louis fucking hates being sick. 

He's always hated it, ever since he was a kid. He always wanted to be out playing with Stan, or messing with his sisters, or doing literally anything but being in bed and getting better. He'd only ever had the flu once before, when he was ten, but it sticks out in his head as a couple of the worst days of his childhood. It was in the middle of the Christmas holidays, and he was stuck inside with only his mum for company, while his siblings were outside in the snow having fun. Louis shuts his eyes and lets the memory wash over him, remembering feeling miserable and indignant and so, so sick. 

_"My silly BooBear, don't you realize you'll get better faster if you rest?" Johanna said as she gently guided Louis back down into his bed, tucking an extra quilt around him. She'd found him trying to sneak out of the house, despite having a fever and puking every ten minutes.  
"But Mummy, Stan's going sledding with everybody today, and I can't miss it." Louis protested weakly, his nose running. "Even Fizzie's there, and she can barely walk!"   
"Yes, but Fizzie doesn't have the flu." his mother gently reminded him, wiping his nose with a tissue. "You'll be back on your feet in no time, if you'd just slow down and let me take care of you."   
"You don't need to take care of me." Louis mumbled as his mother tenderly smoothed his sweaty hair back from his forehead, sitting down on the edge of his bed. "I'm nearly eleven, I'm not a baby anymore, you've got enough people to take care of."   
"I'll always take care of you." Johanna said softly, chucking him under the chin and leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. "Because you're always going to be my baby. My Louis."  
Turns out that Stan broke his leg on that sledding trip, so he spent the next six weeks wearing a cast. And Louis got better within the next two days, under his mother's gentle care..._

"Don't go there, Tommo." Louis says aloud. "Don't fucking go there, you already feel shitty enough."   
Louis distemperedly turns over on his side and tugs the blanket over his head. His head is throbbing, and every part of his body is aching, and he's gonna have a nap. Slowly, he drops off into an uneasy sleep, but it seems like he's barely gotten ten minutes when his discarded phone starts ringing. Letting out a low curse, he blinks awake and scrabbles to pick up the phone. He brings it level to his gaze and then sighs, because Niall is calling him. Louis loves the guy, he really does, but Niall is exhausting, and Louis knows that he isn't drugged up enough to hold a conversation with him. But Louis also knows (from past experience) that Niall will just keep calling him if he doesn't pick up the first time. And, sure enough, once that call ends, another one starts up ten seconds later. So Louis takes a deep breath and answers. 

" 'Ello?" he mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Niall?"   
"Louis!!!" Niall cries excitedly, loudly, making Louis take the phone away from his ear and cringe in pain. "I'm bored out of me skull, tried writing some songs earlier but it wasn't flowing, ya know? Are you free this morning? Wanna come over to my flat and play video games? I got the new FIFA-"  
"I'm sick as a fucking dog, man." Louis interrupts quickly, sneezing in his elbow as if on cue. "Woke up and felt like actual death. I think it's the flu, it's going around."   
"Oh shit." Niall says, dismayed. Louis can almost see him frowning, his light eyebrows scrunched together. "Are you by yourself? Liam's working, like normal, right?"   
"Yeah, he's helping legitimate sick people." Louis says with a light laugh, even that motion scratching his throat.   
"Want me to come over and keep you company? I'm good at playing nurse, Gemma and Ed both get strep throat every single winter-"   
"Maybe they play some tonsil hockey in their free time, Nialler." Louis says dryly, hearing Niall guffaw. Damn him and his ability to laugh without pain.   
"It'd be a cold day in Hell first, Tommo. Ed's not over his ex, Roslynn: who do you think all our ballads are about? But anyway, I'm guessing FIFA's out for today?"   
"Considering I feel like I've been hit by half a bus and the other half is advancing towards me at rapid speed, I'm gonna say yeah, video games aren't on the cards."   
"Fine, I'll let ya go, cuz I'd whoop your ass anyway." Niall teases as he hangs up, and Louis smiles fondly at his phone screen. Despite his now worsening migraine, he really does like Niall. 

That is, he does until his phone starts ringing two minutes later, just after he's gotten somewhat comfy again. Louis spits out a curse and answers the phone once more, without looking at the Caller ID this time, because it's definitely Niall. He's probably gonna ask if Call of Duty: Black Ops would be a good alternative.   
"Niall, I'm sick." he snaps once the call connects. "Like, sweaty, fevered sick. About to puke out my guts sick. On the verge of hallucinations sick."   
"Hello to you too, Louis." Liam says. "I'm locked in a closet in the hospital right now, but I think you're faring worse." 

Oh _fuck._

"Liam, what's wrong?" Louis says automatically, heaving himself upward so now he's sitting up straight. "Did something happen? Did a hospital case freak you out? Was there a car acci-"   
"No, nothing like that." Liam responds quickly, his voice sounding strained. "Uh- yeah, it's nothing medical..."  
"What?" Louis asks, confused now. "Why're you locked in a closet then? Dr. Lee being a bitch again? I'll come and fuck her up, I don't give a shit. Jail might be worth it, honestly."   
"No, no it's not my boss....somebody's here, and I don't know what to do about it."   
"Well, Liam." Louis says patiently, stifling a cough. "Who's there?"   
" _He's here_." Liam hisses in panic, and Louis can hear him rustling around in the closet, probably obsessively counting syringes to calm himself. "The painter dude. Zayn. Yeah, his name was Zayn." 

Oh. Lovely. It's been two weeks since the Birthday Party of Satan Incarnate, and Louis has yet to get the image of Liam snogging that Zayn bloke out of his head. What a lovely, _lovely_ reminder.   
"Is he hurt?" Louis says, thoroughly befuddled now. (Is it wrong he kinda hopes so? He's going to hell anyway) "Did he impale himself on a paintbrush?"   
"He's perfectly fine!" Liam cries. "Of total sound mind and body."  
"Well, why the fuck is he in the hospital then? Is he stalking you or some shit?"   
"No. He's painting a mural, in the pediatrics wing. It's like all sunflowers and teddy bears and shit, I have no bloody clue....oh my god, this isn't happening."   
"What's the problem?" Louis says, still not understanding. "All he's gonna do is paint, and then get out of there. I know it'll be an extensive project, so he'll be there for awhile, but you don't have to see him. Just don't go to the pediatric wing that often."   
"I have to go there, it's part of my rotation this month." Liam groans. "I went in there just now, to get some charts, totally unawares, and then I saw him. After I literally almost shit a brick, Zayn noticed me and _then he started heading over_. We had a five minute conversation!"   
"Is it that big of a deal, Li?" Louis says gently, trying to bring him back to earth. "Look, I- I know he was a one-night stand, and it can be awkward if you see them again, but-"   
"We didn't-he wasn't-" Liam whispers weakly. "We just danced and kissed and then we sat at one of the tables and talked for hours."   
"It's even less awkward then!" Louis says brightly, trying to sound optimistic. Inside his head, he's screaming _you didn't sleep with him you didn't sleep with him you didn't sleep with him_. His heart is hammering and despite Liam's stress, he can't help the smile stretching across his cheeks. Maybe this Zayn guy really does mean nothing.   
"I just- I just- didn't want to see him again." Liam says, his voice faltering. "I don't get attached because then I don't have to worry. That's the whole point." 

Here, Liam pauses, swallowing hard. He clears his throat and then begins to speak again.   
"I don't want to get attached to him. And I very easily could. He was just- really, really nice." 

Oh. 

So Zayn does mean something. Or at least, he has strong potential to. And if Liam spends more time with him during Zayn's commission at the hospital, then.....Louis suddenly finds it very difficult to breathe, and it's not from his congestion. He shuts his eyes and presses his lips together tightly, because this is literally the last thing he needs today. This shouldn't even have been a concern, because Liam never, ever follows up his hook-ups. He's supposed to never see them again, not remember their names and definitely not remember how nice (or how not nice) they were to him. This way, Liam doesn't worry about the person, and Louis doesn't have to worry about Liam. Except now, maybe they both have to worry. 

“I can’t believe this.” Liam groans into the phone speaker. “I just wanna do my job, is that too much to ask? I wanna help sick children, because this month, that is my job. Except he’s still there-”  
Louis swallows hard, because Liam’s bordering on hysteria. He can hear it in the wavering of his voice, in the unsteadiness of his breath. Liam can’t lose it at work, because if he does, he’s literally incapable of functioning. And then that fucking Dr. Lee will flip on him and make everything a million times worse. So Louis, as sick as he is, as _lovesick_ as he is, has to force his own emotions back and handle Liam’s.   
“Liam.” he says gently, trying to keep his voice soothing. “Take a deep breath. And another. And another. Now, once we hang up, you should get out of the closet, and go to work. Work has always calmed you, so that’ll undoubtedly make you feel better. And if Zayn talks to you again….just talk back. You don’t have to feel uncomfortable or awkward or anything. Just talk back, ask how his day’s going, and then go back to work. You have like...the most important job in the world, so he won’t be offended if you’ve gotta rush off or something.”  
“Yeah.” Liam says, huffing out a deep breath. “Yeah, I’ll work. I’ll do my job and I’ll work and it’ll be fine.”  
“Yes, it will be.” Louis says, and he can practically feel his roommate calm down. His stress about life is being channeled into tireless energy for work.   
“Thanks, Lou.” Liam responds, his voice going in and out. “Contact me if you need anything. The first five hours of this shift are almost over, so there’s 67 more! It can only go up from here!”

They hang up and Louis closes his phone, resting it on his chest. Shutting his eyes, Louis chews down on his bottom lip, tasting the tang of blood. He exhales slowly, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. Basically, Louis now feels like utter shit, because he just told Liam to go into Doctor Mode. He advised his best friend to get wrapped up in his own head, a place Liam should never be for long. Louis was selfish, because he’d rather Liam go there than talk to Zayn more. 

Louis’ terrified of Liam getting close to that painter, of getting close to anyone that isn’t himself, really. For the past four years, all they’ve had is each other, and Louis can’t handle the thought of….of Liam having someone else. He knows they aren’t dating, obviously, but- but at least they’ve both never dated anyone else. He hasn’t had to see Liam go on dates, or celebrate anniversaries, or sneak a boyfriend out of the flat before Louis finds them. He hasn’t had to see Liam all giggly and blushy, or his boyfriend spoil him, because he’d do that, without a doubt. Louis hasn’t had to see Liam fall in love, and honestly, he never wants to. 

Unless it’s with Louis, of course. 

Essentially, Louis now feels like a selfish prick, and he’s feeling too shitty to deal with that as well. So, he reaches for his phone and redials the literal ray of sunshine in his life, Niall Horan. Because if anyone can distract him from how much of a despicable human he is, it’s that guy. 

“Yo, Nialler. I’m feeling much better! Think I had some kind of turn-around, it’s definitely a work of God. Gimme your address mate, because I’m about to come over and thrash your arse in Grand Theft Auto.”

 

So, a few things happened within the next half hour.   
1\. Louis couldn’t find his wallet, so he decided to go to Niall’s apartment on foot. He really was feeling a bit better, and it couldn’t be that far.   
2\. A thunderstorm started.   
3\. Louis realized that Niall’s apartment was on the other fucking side of London. The really, _really_ posh side. 

So now he’s standing outside Niall’s front door, after trudging his way through a million London streets. To top it off (quite literally), Niall’s flat is the penthouse of his building, and the elevator was broken, so Louis then had to walk up countless stairs. He’s soaked to his bones, confused as all hell (because how the fuck does Niall afford a place like this?), and feeling sicker than ever. Was there any way Niall was drunk at 10:00 AM and sent Louis the wrong address? This place has a goddamn doorman, who sent Louis some pretty funny looks as he entered the building. He guesses that it’s not every day that a fevered ragamuffin wanders into this place. Louis wraps his wringing wet cardigan tighter around his body and raises his hand to knock on the door. The knocker is heavy in his grasp, the metal cold and smooth against his skin. Holy shit, that’s not solid gold, is it? No _fucking_ way. 

Whatever. Louis doesn’t care if Niall is the only heir to a massive fortune or a genius inventor or a highly popular male stripper as well as a musician. All he wants to do is flop on his probably enormous couch and watch some pixelated cars drive around a pixelated track. Maybe Niall’s soothing laugh will lull him to sleep (sarcasm definitely implied). So Louis knocks. 

And Harry Styles answers. 

 

“Louis Tomlinson.” Harry says evenly, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his chest. Louis just stands there, numb with shock. Is he ever going to stop embarrassing himself in front of this guy? Louis is acutely aware of how his clothes are clinging to his body, feels the wet denim of his jeans stick to his legs. He’s fucking freezing, and yet he feels so hot, and he really, really shouldn’t have come. Looking up, he makes unsteady eye contact with Harry, feeling even colder in his green eyes.   
“What are you doing here?” he blurts out before he can stop himself, not even caring at this point. This is Niall’s house, Niall lives here, Harry shouldn’t be here. Granted, they’re friends, but Louis had thought that Niall figured out how much the two guys disliked each other. Niall wouldn’t be crazy enough to have them both over at the same time, would he?  
“I live here.” Harry says, arching an eyebrow. He’s surveying Louis up and down, looking distastefully at the puddles of water around his feet. Louis flushes hotly as his words, because of fucking course this is his house too. Niall’s so fucking crazy that he shares a flat with Harry Styles.  
“Oh.” Louis says awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking. He considers turning right around and going home, but he just can’t face it. He’s no Liam, he’s not a doctor, but he’s pretty sure that if he doesn’t rest soon, he’ll pass out at Harry’s feet.   
“Is Niall in?” he asks, hearing the edge of desperation in his voice. “He wanted me to hang out with him today, that’s why I’m here.”  
“He is in the shower currently.” Harry responds loftily, pulling his curls back, and Louis nods uneasily. He’s just begun to turn back, already thinking about his tortuous walk home, when Harry’s voice sounds again.   
“But you may come in, of course.” he says, stepping out of the doorway and beckoning for Louis to follow him. “And wait until Niall’s ready to see you. I’m sure he won’t be long.” 

Louis debates for a few seconds before he moves. He has two options: Option A- follow Harry inside and endure his company for a few more minutes before Niall comes to relinquish him. Or Option B- run the fuck away and possibly die in the thunderstorm. Which is more tempting? Spending voluntary time with the Spawn of Satan or death?

Louis grits his teeth and enters the apartment. Option A it bloody is. He closes the door behind him and carefully wipes his feet on the doormat, already knowing it won’t make a difference. He’s still soaked through. Looking up, Louis glances around himself, feeling his eyes grow wider. This is possibly the nicest London flat he’s ever been in, and he’s only two feet inside the place. It’s got panelled hardwood floors, new and impeccable. The kitchen, where Harry presumably went, is off to the left. A quick peek inside confirms what Louis previously suspected: every appliance in there is shiny stainless steel, looking like it’s never been touched. They’re a far cry from Liam and Louis’ fridge, which is absolutely ancient and smells vaguely like old cheese, or their washing machine that breaks down every two weeks. 

Louis turns slowly, feeling his muscles groan. He takes a few steps forward, into the living room. There’s a huge flatscreen TV on the wall, with racks and racks of DVDs on shelves below it. On the side is presumably every video game console known to man: PS3, PS4, Wii, Xbox, and one that looks like a GameCube (hopefully for sentimentality sake more than anything else.) A leather wraparound couch is in the middle of the room, looking far too inviting to Louis’ exhausted self. He creeps toward it and glances around, like poison darts will come flying toward him if he dares sit down. Eventually, he decides to fuck it, obviously Niall can somehow afford another one if Louis water stains this piece of furniture, so he sinks down into the sofa, giving a little sigh of relief. 

“Comfortable?” Harry asks, and Louis looks to his right, where Harry has entered the room, holding a mug in his hand.   
“Very, thanks.” Louis responds curtly, too worn out to be polite. He leans his head back on the sofa cushion, as if to exemplify just how comfy he is. Harry saunters over and gets closer to Louis, standing over him. His body looms over Louis’ sitting one, magnifying the already apparent height difference between them. Harry is just watching him, his expression thoughtful, and Louis blatantly stares back, willing himself to keep from blushing. Harry’s eyes are pondering, looking duller than Louis has seen them look yet. Louis is sure that Harry’s enjoying this, enjoying taunting him and playing this freaky game, but he seems weird today. At least, weirder than he was on the two times Louis’ met him before.   
“You look rather abysmal.” Harry says off-handedly, like he’s talking about the shitty weather and not Louis’ appearance. “Are you sure you’re not ill?”

_Well, actually, I feel like a bomb just detonated inside of me and now all that’s holding me together are pieces of shrapnel and some Band-Aids_ , Louis thinks to himself, _But because I think you’re a goddamn pompous prick, I won’t be sharing that with you._

“Nah, I’m alright.” Louis replies gruffly, hearing how his voice betrays him. He sounds sinusy and congested, his tone nasally. Harry blinks at him owlishly, looking unbelieving. Louis raises his chin, trying to look defiant but probably failing. He doesn’t know what Harry’s gonna do, because it’s not like he’s dying, and this bloke probably wouldn’t be willing to drive him to the hospital even if he was. They’re trapped in a bubble for a few seconds, both testing each other, and Louis can feel the palpable tension between them. 

And then Harry hands Louis the cup of tea. 

“Would you like milk or sugar?” he asks as Louis nearly spills the burning hot liquid on his legs as he fumbles to intercept the cup. He tightens his grip on the mug, wondering if tossing it over himself and burning off his skin would be a coward’s way out. Harry is still standing there, waiting for his tea order, apparently. Louis looks down into the murky brown liquid, feeling the heat of it warm his cheeks. He doesn’t want to take anything from Harry, but he knows tea would make him feel better.   
“Both please.” he mumbles and Harry gives a single nod, striding away back to the kitchen. Louis wraps both his hands around the mug and waits for him to get back, because though he takes his coffee bitter, tea needs to be sweet. 

A few moment’s later, Harry’s returned, clutching a pot of sugar and a milk jug in his hands. He stands in front of Louis again, who holds the cup up and watches as Harry pours a steady stream of milk in it. He then glances at Louis, motioning with the sugar.   
“Three spoonfuls, please.” Louis answers his unspoken question. Harry smirks slowly and obligingly does as he says, then dropping the spoon into the tea and stirring it around. Louis watches in confusion, because Harry is literally doing every single step. And c’mon, Louis is clearly sick, but he’s not an invalid. Harry then walks back into the kitchen without another word, and Louis stares after him as he goes. This is so, so weird. 

It is a good cup of tea though, he has to admit that. 

Louis sits there alone, drinking his tea and praying that Niall will show up soon. Harry’s gone back into the kitchen, and Louis can hear him clattering around in there. Probably cooking crystal meth, or maybe creating a homemade bomb to toss in Louis’ direction. Neither would surprise Louis anymore, honestly. Louis listens closer and hears the sound of running water, accompanied by Niall Horan’s singing voice. His artist of choice is Taylor Swift, and he’s giving a rendition of her ballad “Clean.”. Nice one. Appropriate for a shower, Louis supposes. 

_“Rain came pouring down when I was drowning, that’s when I could finally breathe….”_ Niall sings, strong and clear, and Louis shuts his eyes, letting his voice wash over him. Taylor’s no Ingrid, but Louis does like her, and this song in particular is one of his favourites. And Niall’s voice is basically heaven: he could make a cat caterwauling sound excellent. Louis is calmed by the sound, and he’s half-out of it, just listening to Niall, when, from the other side of the flat, another voice enters Louis’ consciousness. Harry’s voice. 

_“And by morning, gone was any trace of you, I think I’m finally clean…”_

Harry’s voice is lower than Niall’s: the bass to his tenor. He sounds more hesitant than Niall does, lacking the confidence given by years and years of performing. His tone is gravelly, sorta scratchy in a couple places, but they’re all the right ones. Whereas Niall is singing just for pure enjoyment, Harry’s more careful about it. He sounds almost unsure, as if he doesn’t know if he should really be doing this. He’s clearly surrounded by tons of people with talent, being intricately involved with Nameless, so he probably doubts that he’s any good. Which is untrue, because honestly? He’s good, like honest to fuck _good_ , and Louis’ face sours as he realizes that there’s probably nothing Harry Styles can’t do. And Jesus damn Christ, these people sing bloody duets to each other across their flat? Is this the _Sound of Music_? Are seven smiling blonde Austrian children going to come tap dancing around the corner next? 

Louis takes another huge gulp of his tea and tries to pretend it tastes like shit. 

Awhile later, with Harry still in the kitchen, Louis hears the pitter-patter of wet feet against the hardwood floor off to his life. Looking up, he sees Niall walking towards him, wearing nothing but a gray pair of sweatpants. He feels relief flood through him at the sight, because Niall beams as soon as he claps eyes on Louis. A friendly face, thank God.   
“Lou!” he cries happily, his eyes shining. “You came over after all? Deadly, mate, deadly! Harry let you in, yeah?”   
He doesn’t wait for the obvious answer to his question. Niall comes bounding over to Louis, flinging himself onto the couch and then flinging his arms around the other guy. His body, despite being damp from his shower, is warm and Louis leans into the embrace, shivering slightly at the contrast. Niall pulls back from him, fully taking in Louis’ appearance. His happy face falls at how obviously ill Lou is, his now worried blue eyes flicking over his features.   
“You look like shit, man.” Niall says, bluntly but not unkindly. He runs a hand through his wet hair, tugging the golden strands back from his face, and then reaches over to put his palm against Louis’ forehead.   
“And you’re fucking boiling too.” he says, pursing his lips together. “I thought you were feeling better?”  
“I was.” Louis lies. “But then I walked here, and it was storming, and now I feel kinda awful again, honestly. Maybe I should just head home again, don’t wanna infect you or Harry-”  
“No.” Niall says firmly, shaking his head. ( Louis has never seen someone look so serious when not wearing a shirt. And speaking of shirtless Niall: he’s got some nice abs. Damn boy). “Liam’s on his crazy ass shift right? So you’ll be by yourself for three days?”  
“Well, yeah, but I’m fine, honestly.” Louis says, trying to sound confident. “I’ve got chicken noodle soup, and DVDs, and plenty of water. Seriously, I’m good-”  
“No.” Niall repeats, a small smile working his way across his face. “You’re staying here until you get better. You're sick, and all by yourself, and you're gonna stay here and let me and Haz take care of you for the next three days." 

Given by how Harry's horrified face pops out from behind the kitchen door, Louis can assume that Harry is as enthused by that prospect as he is. But Niall doesn't see him, because he's too busy looking at Louis, a winning smile on his face. He's gazing at Louis hopefully, biting down on his bottom lip and making his eyes grow bigger. Louis almost winces at the cuteness of the whole picture. Niall Horan is already the cutest person alive: the sleepy eyes, damp hair, and rosy pink cheeks from his shower just aren't fair.   
"Yeah?" Niall says eagerly and Louis sighs, feeling his resolve crumble. He turns his gaze from Niall and glances at Harry, who is standing in the doorway. He looks mighty uncomfortable, fidgeting every couple seconds. A tea towel is thrown over one of his shoulders, and Harry toys with the frayed edge, not looking at Louis. He's hunched over, the set of his shoulders tense and a small frown on his face. It's obvious he wants Louis to say no. And really, Louis can't pass up the opportunity of being mollycoddled _and_ screwing with Harry Styles. 

"Yeah." Louis finishes for Niall, and he punches the air happily, clapping his hands together. Turning on his heels, Niall scurries away, mumbling something about the guest room and pajamas and how Louis needs to have a shower to warm up.   
"I expect to be pampered, Horan." Louis calls teasingly after him. "I'm the namesake of like- twelve French kings. That's practically royalty."   
"A royal pain in the ass, more like." Niall calls back, sticking his tongue out at Louis. "Go get in the shower, there's extra towels there already, use whatever shampoo and conditioner you want.”  
Louis nods and stands up, beginning to walk toward the toilet. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, tapping out a message to Liam. He quickly explains the situation, reassuring him that he’s gonna be alright here. Hopefully he’ll get the message and he’s not too busy being chatted up by Zayn the painter. 

Slipping his phone back into his still damp pocket, Louis gets to the doorway. Harry’s still standing there, and Louis beams toothily at him. He reaches up and pats Harry on the back quickly, who jolts at the touch and then shies away. Whatever, Louis can be civil, even if he’s not gonna be. He just wants to compliment the man on his superb brewing skills, which isn’t necessarily a lie. And if Louis sorta wants to make him squirm while he does so, well...he’s already accepted his future as King of Hell.   
“Thanks for the tea, mate, it was bloody fantastic.” Louis says with a wink in Harry’s direction. And honestly, the look on Harry’s face (disgruntled, confused, and more than a little pissed off) makes whatever’s gonna happen over the next three days worth it. 

 

“Okay, seriously, how the fuck do you afford a place like this?” Louis asks at last from his position on the couch. Niall blinks at him from behind a plate of Nando’s chicken, perri perri sauce staining his chin. What a charmer.   
“Louis, if I tell you, I’d literally have to kill you.” Niall responds seriously. 

It’s the end of Day Two, and Louis can say that he hasn’t moved from this sofa since he parked himself there yesterday afternoon, after a shower that nearly killed him. Seriously, hot water + congestion = Fucking Agony. He got into a spare pair of Niall’s pajamas, threw himself on the leather couch, and has only gotten up to drag himself to the toilet. Niall, true to his word, has treated Louis like a king this entire time. He’s a right mum, seeming determined to get Louis better by mere strength of will. Louis ingests chicken noodle soup practically every hour (homemade too, not shit out of a can), he’s pretty sure that he’s drank the entire Pacific Ocean by now, and whenever he feels the slightest bit lonely, Niall comes to keep him company, making him laugh and letting him win in video games. 

Last night, he even went as far as trying to carry Louis to the spare room. Niall was adamant that he’d sleep better there than on the couch, which was probably true, but Louis didn’t wanna move. Then he was practically hoisted over Niall’s shoulder before he knew what was happening, and c’mon, Louis was light, but not that light. Realizing that he wasn’t gonna win this battle, Niall then climbed onto the couch beside Louis.   
“I can finally be big spoon!” Niall said excitedly, curling his body around Louis’ and nuzzling his head into his sweaty neck. Normally, Louis doesn’t like people being overly intimate with him but...this was Niall. He’s the human version of a teddy bear, and Louis could really use one of those right then. Plus, his sisters would always beg him to cuddle whenever one of them was sick. Fizzie, in particular, became a real cuddle bug when ill. Louis always ended up catching whatever illness she got after sleeping beside her, but it was always worth it…

So essentially, Liam Payne may be the best person on the planet, but he’s got some competition on Niall Horan. That’s all Louis is gonna say. 

 

“I’m pretty sure I’m already dying.” Louis says back, nuding at Niall’s leg weakly with his toe. Niall playfully swats him away, smiling fondly at his friend. “Go on, Ni. Tell me. Share with the class.”  
Niall looks at him carefully, considering for a long moment. Louis stares cajolingly back, hoping he looks pathetically sick enough that Niall gives in. He’s been dying to know all day, and he would’ve even asked Harry for the answer, if he was around. (He avoided Louis like the plague all of yesterday evening, went to work early this morning, and hasn’t been back since. Not that Louis is complaining too much: Niall’s much better company).   
“You’re secretly Steve Jobs back from the dead.” Louis guesses, and Niall snickers into his food, reaching over to the coffee table to grab his beer. Louis looks on longingly, because fuck, he wants to get drunk. He weakly picks up one of his many water bottles and takes an unsatisfactory gulp. Maybe if he believes hard enough, it’ll become vodka.   
“Tell me, ya tosser.” Louis says with a suffering sigh. “I truly believe that if I learn the answer to this mystery, I will be miraculously cured.”  
“Will ya now?” Niall says with obvious amusement, his Irish accent thickening. “Well, then I might just have to consider sharing my dirty secrets, to save your life.”  
“I knew it!” Louis crows, eyes sparkling. “You’re an escort!”  
“Sadly no, I wish it was that glamorous.” Niall says with a giggle. 

Here he pauses, resting his beer on his knee and looking down into its depths. He gives a tiny smile, a dimple appearing in the corner of his cheek. Louis leans forward eagerly, wanting to hear what he has to say. Niall gently puts a hand on his shoulders and guides him back down so he’s laying flat. He tugs the woolen blanket up further to Louis’ chin, tucking it around him.   
“My uncle’s a music producer.” he says, almost conversationally, not looking at Louis properly as he continues to tuck him in. “Nothing major, just a little firm in Ireland, right? Local people who wanna get discovered. Anyway, one summer when I was around sixteen, he had like no clients, and he knew that I was interested in music and stuff. So, he invited me into the studio, and I recorded a couple songs I’d written.”

“Keep in mind Louis, these things were utter shit. I’m pretty sure one of the lyrics on a deluxe track was _if you adore me like I adore you, don’t walk out the door_. Like, it was literally shit on a stick. But yeah, I recorded them and my uncle tried to give them as much publicity as he was able. Because we’re obviously related, my EP didn’t have my name on it.”

Niall pauses, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he’s still debating. He finally looks at Louis, and his gaze softens. Louis knows that whatever’s Niall about to say is clearly big, so he just waits patiently, letting Niall get there himself. It’s another piece of his story that he’s willing to give away, and Louis is privileged to be given it. Niall looks at him one more time and shrugs his shoulders, like he’s given in and doesn’t care that he has.   
“I went under the name Johnny Mahoney.” Niall finishes and-

And holy shit. 

_Holy fucking shit_

“NIALL HORAN!” Louis screeches, flinging a pillow at Niall’s head. “NIALL, YOU’RE JOKING.”  
“I wish I was.” Niall says with a laugh, ducking to evade the onslaught of upholstery Louis is still sending his way. “It’s so fucking embarrassin’, I listen to those songs and cringe-”  
“Niall, “Johnny Mahoney” was number one on all the radio stations for like… _a year_ when we were sixteen.” Louis says, dumbstruck. “Everybody adored his shit, my sisters all “married” him in our back garden, with me as groomsman. And it drove everybody fucking insane that he didn’t tour, or that nobody even knew what he bloody looked like.”  
“Yeah, well, you don’t wanna see me as a sixteen year old.” Niall said with a chuckle. “I had a Bieber cut, it was a dark time for everyone involved.”   
“Listen, you haven’t seen my teenage Bebo account.” Louis warns with a smile, coughing wetly into his elbow. This is probably one of the oddest revelations of Louis’ entire life. Johnny Mahoney was an internet sensation when he was a teen: a singer with the voice of an angel and no face. He’d never stepped into the public eye, never released tour dates. All he was was an album on iTunes, but the secrecy of the entire thing drove people wild. 

It became like….a mission across the European continent to figure out who this kid was. There were quizzes in every magazine about traits you thought Johnny Mahoney had, what you thought he looked like, what your dream date with him would be. (Louis knows all of this because of Lottie’s obsession, of course. No other reason). You couldn’t turn on the radio without hearing one of his songs. Eventually, as with all celebrities, things died down. Some new heartthrob won the X-Factor in the autumn, he became the the poster in every teen girl’s room, and people forgot about the faceless singer. 

And yet, here he sits. Right in front of Louis Tomlinson, eating dinner like he hasn’t just dropped a literal bomb. If Louis thinks back to all those singles on the radio, and to how he heard Niall singing in the shower earlier, the voices are similar. Not identical, obviously, due to Niall’s voice maturing and his style of singing developing, but...Niall is definitely Johnny fucking Mahoney. 

_Jesus Christ._

“But Niall…”Louis says, not even knowing what he wants to ask.   
“Mmhhm?” Niall mumbles, as he tries to shove more chicken into his mouth.   
“You could’ve been famous. Everybody adored you, or at least your music, and you didn’t jump on that? And honestly Ni, you’d be famous if you left your band. I understand that you don’t wanna, but...you really, _really_ could be.”  
“I know.” Niall says, but he doesn’t sound arrogant. He’s just stating a fact, which it is. They have evidence that if Niall went at it alone, he’d be a hit. “But I don’t wanna be famous by myself. I’m lucky that I didn’t… _reveal my identity_ when I was a teenager. Because I wouldn’t have been able to handle it then, nor would I be able to now. I’m a social person, I love other people, and I’ve gotta bounce my ideas off others. The reason all of Johnny Mahoney’s songs were shit is that he wrote them all by himself, in his room. I love my band, I love our fans….I don’t wanna be solitary.”

Niall falls silent, lost in his thoughts. He takes a swig of his beer, contemplatively staring at the ceiling. Louis wriggles around on the couch, turning so his head is lying on Niall’s lap. Niall shoots him an exasperated glance over the mess he’s made of the blankets, but he runs a gentle hand through Louis’ hair anyway. Louis shuts his eyes, enjoying the rhythmic feeling. He doesn’t shy away from Niall’s touch at all, because- because he’s beginning to think that he doesn’t wanna be solitary either. He’d forgotten how nice it felt to have a mate. Not somebody that he secretly adored, but just a plain, good _mate_. Somebody to kick a football around with and play video games and drink beer. Somebody that just looks like a friend on the outside, but he’s there for you when you’re sick, offering warmth and laughs and dependability. 

Niall is so damn dependable, it makes Louis tear up. 

“So,” Louis says thickly, hoping that his weak tone is chalked up to congestion and not emotion. (God forbid Louis show emotion, for fuck’s sake.) “You live off the money from Johnny Mahoney’s EP? So many people downloaded that thing that you can still survive off the profit?”  
“Amazingly, yes.” Niall says, his voice amused as he scratches circles in Louis’ hair with his blunt nails. “Good ol’ Johnny hasn’t run out on me yet. Let’s just hope he doesn’t until Nameless gets big.”  
He sounds so sure, so confident that Nameless will go places. Louis wishes he shared his positivity about the future. He has so many worries, so many qualms that everything will go wrong and he’ll end up right where he started. A lonely boy in Doncaster with no escape. Louis doesn’t ever want to be that boy again.   
“Why doesn’t Nameless go to your uncle and record stuff there?” Louis asks, curiosity piqued. “Wouldn’t that make things a million times easier?”  
“Same reason I didn’t go by ‘Niall Horan’ on my EP.” Niall says with a shrug. “I want to do it by myself. If we’re meant to make it, it’ll happen for us. And if it does, if someday I’m gonna be up onstage with my best friends and have our fans screaming song lyrics back at us….I wanna know we got there alone and don’t owe anyone a thing. Fuck connections, fuck pseudonyms: I wanna be Niall Horan and we wanna be Nameless and we’re bloody gonna be.” 

_This_ Louis thinks to himself _This is why Gemma Styles fell in love with you_. Niall’s face is burning with his intensity. His eyes are manically bright, and he seems filled with energy, like nobody can stop him for achieving what he wants. And in that moment, Louis believes that nobody really can. Niall seems to pull himself out of his own head, looking down at Louis and smiling fondly. He’s still patting his hair.   
“Well, maybe I shouldn’t say ‘fuck pseudonyms’ to you.” he says lightly, his hands finally stalling. And with them stalls Louis’ heart, because what did Niall just say?

He can’t know. There’s no way he knows. Louis never told Niall, at least not that he remembers. And he really doubts Liam would’ve spilled the beans, because he knows how important it is to Louis. Even highly intoxicated, Liam would know to hold his tongue on this particular subject. There’s no fucking way that Niall Horan knows about Gregory Stone. 

But Louis still feels hysteria rise up in his chest because _what if he does?_. 

He has to know. Clearing his throat, Louis glances up fully at Niall. Niall is looking back at him, his eyes gentle. His pink lips are half-parted, his tongue poking out from behind them. He’s trying to read Louis, and for once, Louis won’t let him. He shuts his eyes and turns his face away.   
“What do you mean, Niall?” he asks, trying to keep his voice controlled. Louis squirms around a bit, shoving the blanket down to his waist. He feels claustrophobic all of a sudden, because this is too much, he’s perfectly fine with Niall spilling his own secrets, but he doesn’t wanna talk about his own. He can feel his hands shaking, so he grips the blanket in his fists, not letting Niall see. 

“I think Gregory Stone already knows the answer to that question.” Niall says quietly, and shit, fuck fuck fuck shit shit shit _he knows_. Somehow, Niall knows, and Louis needs to get the fuck out of here before the conversation goes any further. His eyes fly open, and he can feel the terror flooding his every feature. He swallows nervously, his throat painfully dry even though he feels like he’s drowning in the light of Niall’s blue eyes.   
“Did Liam tell you?” Louis whispers hoarsely, his voice cracking. That’d be too much for Louis, if Liam told his greatest secret to a person he’s met twice. Thankfully, Niall is shaking his head, and Louis can breathe again. Letting out a sigh, Louis sinks down against Niall’s legs, covering his face with his hands. Despite Liam not having told him, it doesn’t change the fact that Niall knows that Louis published a book of poetry. A highly successful book of poetry.   
“Who told you then?” Louis mumbles from behind his hands. “Nobody else is- is _aware_ -”  
“Nobody told me, Tommo.” Niall says with a hint of a laugh in his voice as he tugs Louis’ hands away from his face. “I just figured it out, is all. Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together..”  
“Oh, does it not?” Louis says with a huff. “Considering that only one other soul on the entire planet knows, and you’ve already affirmed he didn’t tell you, then please, enlighten me as to how you “put two and two together.”  
“Oi, don’t get snippy because I’m intelligent.” Niall says with mock pompousness, putting his nose in the air snootily. “I can still toss your royal arse out on the street, ya know.”  
“You wouldn’t.” Louis says, his stony face finally cracking a smile as Niall’s fingers dig into his sides, tickling him lightly.   
“Yeah, I wouldn’t, I like ya too much.” Niall says, tipping his head forward so his blonde hair flops in front of his eyes. “And listen, do you wanna know how I figured it out?”  
“Yes, so I can be certain to take precautions that nobody ever repeats your method.”

Niall chuckles and he stops tickling Louis, letting him catch his breath. Pausing, Niall gently puts his hand against Louis’ forehead again, using the few seconds of silence to assess his condition. He swallows once and then opens his mouth to speak again.   
“I had a suspicion that your career wasn’t as slow as you made it out to be.” Niall begins. “Because, like me, you do nothing all day, and I mean that in the best possible way, mate. So, I assumed that you’d had some success in the past, and just didn’t wanna boast about it. But then at Harry’s party, you gave him the book, and your face when he insulted it...that’s what clued me in.”  
“Well, c’mon!” Louis protests feebly, trying to defend himself. “He fucking dragged it through the dirt, calling it “incestous,” and he has no idea how hard the author worked on the book, or how personal it was, or- or-”

Louis falls silent when he realizes that Niall is laughing. And if Louis wasn’t already given away, then he basically just let the cat out of the bag himself. Niall wipes at his eyes and beams down at Louis, his grin crooked. And at his face, Louis lets out a chuckle too.   
“See, Lou? You didn’t react like a normal person giving a present would. You reacted how the writer of the book would react when given unwarranted criticism. That’s how I knew. Because whenever I hear somebody criticize my work, like a song I’ve written or a performance Nameless does, I’m literally ready to claw the person’s eyes out.”  
“Yeah, yeah I see what you mean.” Louis says, rubbing at his tired eyes. He’s fucking wrecked. “We get defensive because we created the thing. It’s the right of a creator.”  
“Exactly. We’re more alike than you think, Tomlinson.” Niall says with a cheeky wink. “Now, let’s go to feckin’ sleep, yeah? It’s officially fuck knows o’clock.”

Louis nods and he flops back down on the couch, feeling his eyes slide closed. He expects Niall to get up and go to his own bed, assuming that one night sharing a sofa was more than enough for him. But to his surprise, Niall worms his way between Louis’ body and the back of the couch.   
“Budge up, Louis. I take up more space than you’d think.” Niall mumbles sleepily, his warm breath tickling Louis’ neck. Louis shuffles forward so he has more space, and Niall wraps an arm around Louis’ waist. It doesn’t escape his notice that Niall places one hand on Louis’ chest, right over his heart. So he can feel it as they sleep, making sure it’s still going. They fall asleep like that: two secretly famous people, sharing the same sofa. Two people who weren’t ready to give what the world wanted from them, so they hid behind fake names. Two liars. One singer, one poet: Two friends. 

 

Louis wakes up the next morning alone. Turning over on his side, he blinks his eyes open, pawing at the cold empty space of the couch that Niall must’ve vacated. Damn, he either has the agility of a cat, or Louis had been totally conked out. He is feeling rested, and his muscles ache a little bit less. Leaning over to the coffee table, he scrabbles to pick up the thermometer. Shoving it in his mouth, he checks his temperature. When it beeps, he looks at the screen and then pumps both fists in the air. 36.5 Celsius. Half a degree away from a fever, but nonetheless, it’s not a fever. And today Liam’s shift ends, so maybe he can go home too. Fuck yeah. 

Louis has nicely convinced himself that he’ll be in his own home within the hour until he stands up and promptly flops down to the ground.   
“Fuck.” Louis mumbles into the floor, hoping that Niall vacuums on a regular basis. He heaves himself to his hands and knees, wondering why the fuck he can’t move properly. Probably because he hasn’t really moved on his own in two days. Still, a Tomlinson never admits defeat, and Louis has to take a piss, so he crawls on the floor towards the toilet, praying that nobody is around to witness this humiliation. He doesn’t know where Niall went, and Harry hasn’t been home since the day before yesterday. Boo-fucking-hoo. 

Louis reaches the toilet door and shoves it open. Using the doorknob, he manages to get to his feet and stands on shaky legs, leaning heavily on the doorframe for support. He stumbles towards the loo and manages to relieve himself without too much fucking trouble. He’s just washing his hands at the sink (using Bahama Breeze soap, by the way) when he hears voices. 

And unfortunately, it’s not the voices in his head. It’s Harry Styles and some other guy that Louis doesn’t recognize. Creeping forward and trying to make as little noise as possible, Louis goes to the door of the bathroom. He presses his ear against the wood of the door, trying to listen, but their voices had already stopped. Peering through the gap between the door and the wall, Louis narrows his eyes and tries to make out the scene before him. 

 

And well.....someone else is making out too. That explains why the voices stopped, at least. Harry is sitting on the same couch that Louis spent the last two days on, straddling the hips of a dark-haired guy. The man's hands are corded through Harry's curls, holding his head in place as they kiss. Harry angles his head back, exposing his neck, and the guy starts to press his lips against it: feather-light kisses that make Harry gasp loudly. Louis feels his cheeks heat up at the sound, because Jesus Christ, they don't have much shame, do they? He's seriously hoping that some heavy kissing is as far as things progress and that he's not about to get a real show. This is only something that would happen Louis Tomlinson: being trapped in the fucking loo while other people get it on.   
"We probably shouldn't be on this couch." Harry says, his voice unsteady. The dark-haired guy pulls back from his administrations to Harry's collarbones and looks up at Harry, his brown eyes glittering. He's- he's _old_. Not like a geriatric or anything, but definitely late twenties. Maybe even early thirties. What the hell is a barely legal kid like Harry doing with a guy like that? Was this just somebody that he picked up on the street over the past two days?

"I think we're okay, babe." Golden Oldie purrs, cupping one of his hands onto Harry's cheek and catching his thumb on Harry's swollen bottom lip. Harry presses his face into the caress for a few seconds, shutting his eyes. He lets out a shaky breath, and then opens them again.   
"I'm serious, Grimmy, we should move." he says firmly. "Niall has his friend over and he was sick the entire time. This couch is probably infected."   
"Niall picked up another waif, then?" the guy, Grimmy, says. Louis blinks as the name clicks in his memory. This guy, this _man_ , is Harry's boyfriend. The boyfriend that Niall absolutely hates and that Gemma puts up with, for Harry's sake. Well, Louis supposes that that's better than this being a random hook-up, but not much better. He's attractive enough, Louis supposes: the quintessential tall, dark, and handsome. But he just- he seems so different than what a young guy like Harry should be with. But, Louis thinks, Harry's an odd duck too, so maybe it works between them. He doesn't really care. He either wants them to move from the sofa or shag each other and adequately scar Louis for life, because he could get the hell out of this toilet that way.   
"Yes, he did." Harry says with a dramatic eye roll that Louis is beginning to become quite familar with. "Niall's kinda infatuated with him, I think. I'm starting to doubt his assured heterosexuality, to be honest, given how much he talks about Louis."   
"Louis?" Grimmy says. "Bit of a strange name, innit?" 

_ITS BETTER THAN FUCKING "GRIMMY."_ Louis screams internally, clenching his fist around the doorknob. Harry chuckles, his nose scrunching up, and he buries his head into the crook of Grimshaw's neck. Harry wraps his gangly arms around his boyfriend's body, letting out a little sigh. This is the most affectionate Louis has seen Harry ever be with anyone, and it's downright weird to see. He's cuddly and blushy and giggly around this guy, melting into his touch. From what Louis can see of his features, Harry's expression looks far less guarded than normal, a soft, gentle smile playing on his lips everytime he looks at his boyfriend. 

Given that Louis didn't believe that Harry could be soft or gentle for anyone, it's honestly one of the most bizarre sights he's ever seen. But even more bizarre is the fact that Grimmy doesn't cling back to Harry. He barely touches him at all, just lightly rests his hands on Harry's hips in a loose grip. 

"Yes, he's a strange guy." Harry says, the laughter fading out of his voice. "A writer, and most of them are mental anyway. But Niall really likes him, so I deal with it. I even made a vat of chicken noodle soup before I left to feed the guy, because honestly, Niall would feed him beer and Nando's and call it nutritious."   
And okay, what? Harry made that soup that sustained Louis through the last two days? What the fuck? Niall must've literally gotten on bended knee and begged for that to happen, because there's no way Harry would've done it willingly. Grimmy is surprised by this too, because he's looking at Harry with confusion in his gaze. Harry notices his expression and hurries to explain himself.   
"Niall pleaded with me to do so, of course." he says with a toss of his head. "And then I escaped and crashed at your place, as you know. There's no way I'm risking getting the flu."   
"Speaking of my place." Grimmy says, beginning to shift in his seat. "I should probably be getting back there. I'm pretty wiped, and I've gotta get up early tomorrow, for the radio show."   
"Oh." Harry says, his voice suddenly sounding funny as his face falls. He slides off his boyfriend's lap and sits on the couch beside him, his spine rigidly straight. Clearing his throat, Harry runs a hand through his hair, gripping it tightly. As Grimmy stands and dusts himself off, Louis can practically see Harry's walls going back up. He's adopting his normal expression: a casual, blasé countenance with heavy green eyes. 

Grimmy rummages around in his pockets for a few seconds, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Louis watches in amazement as he puts one between his lips and proceeds to light it. Okay, Louis is a smoker himself, he knows what it's like to need a nicotine hit, but seriously? He couldn't wait until he went outside? Now the entire lovely flat will smell like smoke, and fuck, he'll probably set the smoke alarms off next. Glancing down, Grimshaw looks at his boyfriend, surprise flitting across his face.   
"You okay, babe?" he asks Harry. "You don't mind that I'm going home, do you?"   
"No." Harry says lowly, looking at the floor. "It's just- you weren't at your flat the entire time I was there. So I thought we'd get to spend time together today..."   
"Haz, you know how busy I am." Grimmy says cajolingly, casting his eyes downward to look at Harry properly. "Being on the radio's a difficult business, love."   
"I know." Harry sighs as Grimmy pats his head, stroking his hair back. "Trust me, I know."   
"I'll text you later, yeah?" he says, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to Harry's mouth. Harry nods slowly as the older man pulls back, twitching his lips into a smile. Grimmy pinches Harry's cheek in what Louis assumes is affection, and then he's gone, leaving the flat without a backward glance. Harry's left sitting on the couch alone, not knowing he's being observed. Grimmy was in the house for a total of ten minutes. 

Harry sighs deeply, leaning his elbows on his knees and covering his face with his hands. Louis watches him carefully, wondering what he's gonna do next. He has a weird twist in his stomach that he can't really explain. Maybe just because Louis hates seeing affection that isn't returned, maybe because he's still sick and feeling more charitable than normal. Harry eases himself to his feet, giving himself a small shake. He grabs for the many blankets on the sofa, beginning to fold them up with frantic motions. He takes a couple long breaths, pausing to rub at his eyes, and then places the stack of blankets down, smoothing his hand over the top one. He bows his head, inhaling deeply, and then stands up straight, squaring his shoulders back.   
"I'll text him later." Harry says to the air. "Later, when he's not so busy." 

With that, Harry leaves the room, looking as put together as normal. He's suave and controlled now, not a feather unruffled. And Louis is still in the fucking bathroom, unsure of what he just witnessed. Leaning against the door, he shuts his eyes and presses his fingers to his temples. He has a pounding headache, because it seems that the unthinkable has happened: despite all odds, Louis feels sorta sorry for Harry Styles.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Books--oh no! I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same_  
>  feelings."  
> " _I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be_  
>  _no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions_.” -Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....weird chapter. It'd didn't really go where I expected, but honestly, none of this fic does XD Also, I realize that I paint Louis' family in a bad light in this story, and that is not meant to be interpreted literally. I've changed their names now, and will just be using the "characters" for creative purposes. I have upmost respect for the Tomlinson family and how they support the real-life Louis XD 
> 
> Despite this chapter's weirdness, I hope you like it anyway! Comments and kudos make me smile :D

Louis currently has a drunk sister on one phone call, his editor on another, and absolutely no desire to talk to either of them. 

Up until this point, it was a good evening. He just did his thing around the house: reread the first thing he grabbed off his bookshelf, tried baking brownies and wound up burning the bottom of the pan, and even cleaned the dishes for once in his life. Louis is in the middle of hiding the scorched pan in the back of the cupboard when his phone started ringing. Charlotte’s ringtone, _Wannabe_ , by the Spice Girls (Not Louis’ choice). He grabs the cell from his pocket and looks at the screen, lit up with Charlotte’s name. Is it really her this time? Because Louis really isn’t feeling up to another conversation with his mum. Except, a conversation with his little sister might not be preferable, considering that he totally forgot her talent show thing. Fuck, he meant to ask for a video of that….  
“This better be you, Charlie.” Louis mumbles under his breath as he hits ‘Answer.’ “Because if it’s Mummy Dearest, I’m just hanging up.”

The call connects, and there’s a long silence, the only sound being the crackling of the line. Louis curses and stares at the screen again, wondering if she’d butt-dialed him. Or is this a prank-call, like they always used to do on boring Sunday evenings? Is she just messing with him to get his attention? Okay, so he totally forgot to ask how that talent thing went, but the past weeks have been hectic. And let’s be realistic here, if Charlie singing at sixteen is anything like how Louis sang at sixteen, then he really didn’t miss much. 

“Charlie?” he says hesitantly, crossing his fingers that it’s actually her. “Sis? You there?”  
“Louie.” she mumbles in response. “Lou, Lou, Lou.”

She’s fucking wasted. 

Louis can tell already, just from her saying his name. The few words Charlotte managed to say are slurred together, and she sounds out of it, her tone higher than normal: Just like Louis when he’s drunk. Hopefully she’s not the lightweight Louis is as well, or else poor Charlie is in for a very rough morning tomorrow. Or maybe even a rough night, depending on how strong her stomach is. Mostly, Louis hopes she didn’t drink tequila, because that stuff seems to fuck the Tomlinson family up.  
Louis’ face sours as he listens to Charlotte ramble on and on about how nice the weather in Doncaster is right now. If it was anybody else, he’d find this conversation hilarious. She’s literally pissed, and obviously has no idea what she’s talking about. If it was anybody else, Louis would be kicking himself for not being able to record it. But it’s Charlie, his closest sibling. Charlie, who found him crying in his pillow when he was fifteen and climbed right in beside him, holding him until the pain stopped. Charlie, his first baby sister. And _fuck_ , Louis is livid, because who let her get like this? 

He’s got one guess, and Louis is pretty fucking sure it’s the only one he needs, but he won’t use it just yet. He has to get some other information first. 

“Charlotte.” he says sharply, cutting off her speech about how comfortable clouds must be. “Where are you?”  
“ A’ home.” she mumbles petulantly, because even in her inebriated state, she knows that she’s about to get some serious shit from her brother. “In the garden, on the swing. I didn’t drive anywhere, I’m not stupid.”  
“Debatable.” Louis retorts. “Considering that you’re the eldest, and I’m assuming it’s just you and Isabella looking after Lily and Fiona tonight. Great example you’re setting.”  
“You’re the eldest, Louis.” Charlotte says and Louis winces, gritting his teeth together tightly. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, there was no heat behind what she said. It sounded like Charlotte thought he’d actually forgotten he was the oldest kid in his family, and truly just wanted to remind him. 

Still. It fucking hurt, because Louis bloody knew he was the eldest: it was a fact that weighed down on him every day. Louis sighs and shuts his eyes, relieved that she wasn’t gonna get into a car accident. He’d been drunk on the same swing set, and from what he remembered, there aren’t many hazards.  
“What did you drink?” he asks next, trying to remember if Charlotte had any allergies. Izzie’s was food coloring, he remembers that. The twins had peanut allergies, which Louis had had daily heart attacks over as a teen, worried that his mum or his step dad would hand either of them a peanut butter cup as a way to shut them up. He’d asked the school nurse to show him how to use an epipen, and he’d even practiced on baby dolls, just in case.  
“Mum left the liquor cabinet open.” Charlotte says, not really answering the question. Probably trying to make Louis furious at someone other than her. “She probably forgot that I’m tall enough to reach it now, and old enough to realize it isn’t actually grape juice she drinks.”  
“So, wine then?” Louis asks, reading between the lines. “Unless you mixed drinks, which is never good idea, Charlie. Wine isn’t meant to be drunk recreationally, sis.”  
“If you must know, I drank a bottle and a half, and then threw a couple vodka shots in there for good measure.” Charlotte responds with a hiccup, and Louis cringes, shaking his head slowly.  
“You’re gonna have a wicked headache in the morning.” Louis says. “And personally, I think you’ll deserve it, because you’re sixteen years old and shouldn’t be going near the vile stuff. What teen even likes the taste of wine anyway?”  
“Let’s not talk about what you got up to when you were sixteen, Louis.” Charlotte snaps, some of her fire, a shared trait between them, returning. “And I’m stuck in the house, all the time, with a thirteen year old and two eight-year olds. I’m bored, and Mum’s always bloody out-”  
“Language.” Louis reminds her mildly. “And where’s Jo tonight, then?”  
“You don’t call her Mum anymore?” Charlotte asks curiously and somewhat sadly, the words sounding too big for her mouth.  
“No, I don’t.” Louis says curtly, trying to make it sound like this subject isn’t up for discussion. “Where is she?”  
“On some date.” Charlotte says, her own exasperation in her voice. “Some bloke she met at the supermarket. They reached for the same cauliflower or somethin’.”  
“How lovely.” Louis says with a roll of his eyes. “At least I know she’s buying ye vegetables.”  
Charlotte laughs, a sound that bubbles up in her throat and spills over, and Louis feels a strange ache in his chest, starting in his heart and then spreading outward. It used to be the biggest accomplishment if he made Charlie laugh. She was always a serious little thing (despite what happened this evening), and rarely smiled as a kid. Louis made it his mission to make her laugh so hard that her stomach hurt at least once a day, and he acted like a total idiot to make it happen. Singing off key, dancing until his feet ached, literally anything to make her lips twitch even the slightest bit. 

Fuck, he misses her more than he realized. 

“Okay, Charlie.” he says as she quiets down, his voice gentler now. “I want you to go inside, and sit on the couch, okay? Don’t take an aspirin or anything to stave off a headache, because then we’ll have a real problem on our hands. So, just sit there by yourself, because I’m guessing everyone else has gone to bed, and stay on the phone with me. We’ll just chat, and when Jo- when _Mum_ comes in, you put me on the phone to her. I’ll explain the situation, keep her from losing the plot.”  
“Okay, Louis.” Charlotte whispers drunkenly, and he can hear her shuffling around, getting up from the swing and heading towards the house. Relief surges through him, because she’d probably get hypothermia if she stayed out there all night. There’s a beeping in his ear, a sign that another call is coming in, and Louis looks at his phone screen. A vaguely familiar number is calling and Louis figures he better answer it, if his gut is telling him that he knows who this person is. So he tells Charlotte that he’s answering another call, but he’ll keep her on the other line, and then hits “Answer” for a second time. 

“Mr. Stone?”  
Louis almost drops the phone in shock, because that’s the last voice he expected to hear. His editor, a lovely little lass named Ms. Eleanor Calder. Someone Louis hasn’t had any contact with in a year, (excluding a couple obligatory Christmas/birthday emails). Someone that Louis expected never to hear from again, considering he hasn’t submitted any writing in over a year and a half.  
“Mr. Stone, are you there?”  
“Uhh...yes. Yes, I am.” Louis says hurriedly, trying to an adopt a professional tone, like the one he always used in the past with his publisher. His head is spinning with the rapidity in which he had to switch conversations. One second he was talking to his hammered little sister, and now he’s speaking to the woman who once made all his dreams come true when she said “yes” to his book. “How have you been, Eleanor?”  
“Very well, Mr. Stone, thank you.” she responds, and Louis can almost see her fiddling with her hair. They had met a grand total of once, when Louis had considered telling her his legitimate name and then decided that he’d rather remain totally anonymous. Eleanor only knows him as Gregory Stone, and they’re both okay with that. She's a pretty young thing, in her early-twenties, and she'd be the girl of Louis' dreams, if he had dreams about girls. Eleanor is beautiful, brunette, and totally obsessed with books: besides, she'd been the first supporter of _Reflections_ , and Louis would probably adore her until the end of his days just for that reason. She'd stumbled upon his manuscript as an intern at her publishing company, in a pile that said "Maybe," apparently fell in love with his writing, and the pushed the issue until a senior manager read it. Due to the success of the book, Eleanor had gotten a real editing position since then, not just an internship. And even if that was the only good thing that came out of writing _Reflections_ , Louis would've been happy, because she deserved it. 

"I was just wondering if you have any writing for me?" Eleanor says hopefully. "I know the last time we talked, the answer was a negative, but it's been a couple months since then, so I thought that maybe that writer's block had passed. People are still clamoring for more of your poetry, which is amazing in itself, considering you've never even made a public appearance."  
"Sorry, Eleanor, I've got nothing." Louis says ruefully, biting his lip. "I've tried, I really have. Ask the local liquor stores or my roommate. Many long nights have been passed with me, my alcohol, and my failed attempts at writing."  
"Oh." Ms. Calder responds, and Louis can hear her typing on her laptop, a heavy _click-clack_ that he's downright envious of. Eleanor probably isn't writing her own material, but at least she's being productive. "That's alright, Mr. Stone. I'm sure that your creative genius hasn't left you."  
"That's if I ever had such a thing." Louis scoffs, laughing at himself. "My book was more driven by pining, sleep-deprivation, and remnants of teenage angst."  
"I see." Eleanor says jovially, seemingly not put out by his lack of writing. "Well, whatever got you there, people love Stone. Nearly every week I get more fanmail for you, which I'm hoping you'll read someday. Some of it is quite lovely, so if you ever need a confidence boost, give it a read."  
"Will do." Louis answers cheerily, feeling worry for his sister surge back up to the forefront of his mind. With his luck, she'll have passed out on him and fallen off the couch and cracked her pretty skull open. "And if I so much as scratch hieroglyphics on my wall with a stick, you'll be the first to know, Nora."  
"Glad to hear it, Gregory." Eleanor says as she hangs up the call. "I'll talk to you soon."  
"Yes, you probably will." Louis mutters to himself. "Because if I ever talk to Harry Styles about books again, my self confidence will plummet to the Point of No Return and I'll beg for that fanmail." 

Louis sinks down into a chair in the kitchen, covering his face with his free hand, while his other dials Charlotte's number once more. He gives himself a few moments before he taps the "Call" button with his thumb, trying to figure out how he's gonna defend his intoxicated, sixteen year old sister to their egg donor. This could go three ways: 

1\. Jo freaks out and grounds Charlotte for the rest of her foreseeable life.  
2\. Jo doesn't give a flying fuck.  
3\. Jo somehow places all the blame on Louis. 

Personally, Louis is feeling Number Three, but he'll wait and see. Maybe Jo isn't even home yet. He calls Charlotte anyway, biting his nails as he waits. He knows he'll have to talk to his mother at some point tonight about this, but he still hopes it's Charlie that answers the phone first. The phone rings six times without an answer, and Louis is on the brink of hanging up when finally, he hears a voice. And thankfully, it's Charlotte's.  
"Louis." she mumbles thickly. "You called me back. Yay."  
"O' course I did, love." Louis says, trying to be soothing. "I said I was gonna, didn't I? And when have I ever broken a promise to you?"  
"Never ever." Charlotte whispers, sounding painfully childish, and Louis winces. She's almost an adult, she's not a baby anymore, he doesn't have to worry about her every minute of every day.  
"Okay, poppet. Is Mum home yet?" Louis asks, trying to move the conversation forward.  
"Mmhhmm." Charlie hums, and he can hear her moving around on whatever couch she's on, the rusty springs squeaking beneath her. "I'll get her now-"  
"No, pet, stay there." Louis jumps in quickly, not wanting her to move anymore than she absolutely has to. "Just give her a shout, she'll hear ya. Ears like a cat, Mum's got. Must explain how she always knows our business, yeah?"  
Charlotte giggles breathlessly, pulling the phone away from her mouth. Louis distantly hears a shout of "Mum! Louis' on the phone!" and he braces everything, digging his nails into his palms. There's a long silence as Jo moves through the house towards her daughter, a shuffling as the phone is handed over, and then- 

"Louis?" 

“Hi, Jo.” he says stiffly, clenching his hand tighter around his cell. His mother huffs out a breath at his use of her first name, but he ignores it. He can force himself to call her “Mum” for his sister’s sake, but not for hers. “I’m assuming you’ve seen the state Charlotte’s in.”  
“I have.” she responds, her voice totally neutral. Louis narrows his eyes, for once wishing she was right in front of him, so he could read her expression. Is she furious or not? He wants to go with yes, but he’s not entirely sure. He’s also not sure what unsettles him more: if she suddenly cares what her children do (Which was more than he got as a teen), or if she still doesn’t (Which means she hasn’t gotten any better).  
“You do realize she’s underage, right?” he says icily, wanting to probe a reaction out of her. “Two full years underage, no less. And that she got drunk off alcohol that you wantonly left out.”  
“Yes, I realize all of these things, Louis.” Jo says tiredly, and he can just see her face: plaintive and exhausted and imploring him not to push her. Well, fuck that really. It was about time someone pushed her. He’d been pushed at too young an age, pushed by hands far stronger than his own, pushed until he broke. 

“And Charlotte did all of this because she’s bored out of her skull. Playing “Mummy” to her younger sisters and not getting to go out and be a kid herself.” Louis spits, getting more and more worked up. This is history repeating itself, that’s what it fucking is, and he’ll be damned if he watches it unfold without doing something about it. “Sounds a lot like someone else you know, doesn’t it _Mum_?”  
“Louis.” she says, a warning in her voice, one that Louis is intimately familiar with.

_Louis, don't ask why your dad isn't around anymore._  
_Louis, don't fight with your stepfather._  
_Louis, leave me be!_

Fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck it. Louis deserved to know. He deserved to know where his real dad went. He deserved to put up a fight with Kevin. He deserved to have a proper mother, not a waif that could never get her shit together. And right now, Louis deserves to talk. 

"No, don't try and shut me up. Charlotte is drunk, and it's all your fault. We're lucky she had the common sense to stay at home, or else she could've gone out and gotten herself hurt." Louis seethes, seeing red. If anything happened Charlie, their family (as shitty and pitiful as it is) would fall apart. If anything happened any of his sisters, it'd fall apart. "Maybe that would finally wake you the fuck up and you'd start mothering your goddamn kids! I dunno where Charlie gets her sense from, but I certainly doubt it's from you. Why the hell are you gallivanting around the place, chasing a crack- pot romance? Marriage has failed twice for you, so honestly, I'd give up at this point. Stop looking for a fucking fairy tale and be a mother!" 

Louis' voice finally dies, and he takes a deep breath, trying to stop himself from going on another tirade. He hears Jo grit her teeth on the other end of the line, and he knows she's angry. She's just like him, has the same restless fiery temper, and Louis would be enraged if he was on the receiving end of what he'd just said, even though it's all true. He doesn't feel guilty though. He wants her to fight back, wants her to scream and yell and make herself as bad as Louis knows she can be. 

"Charlotte is sleeping in her bed as we speak." Jo says through her clenched teeth, her tone hostile. "I found her on the couch when I came in, after leaving the date early because I wanted to get home to my children, mind you. I changed her into her pajamas, tucked her in, and told her I wasn't angry, but that we'd talk in the morning. If you remember, I once found you in the exact same position, and did the exact same thing, and you were perfectly fine. So, thank you for your concern, unneeded and unwanted as it may be, and if you don't mind, I'm ending this call now. Goodnight." 

With a click, Jo hangs up the phone, and Louis clenches it in his hand, digging his nails into his palm around it. He strides a few steps forward and flings himself down into a chair at the kitchen table, letting out a muffled shout into the wood of the table.  
"Fuck." he groans lowly, banging his forehead against a plastic placemat in front of him. "Fuck her, fuck me, fuck my life, fuck everything."  
He drops his phone down onto the table, resolving to ignore it for the rest of tonight, and probably for the rest of forever. He's trembling and breathless, unable to stop the tears pricking his eyes. It's not fair. The one time he let's everything loose on Jo, she actually manages to do something right. And as always, Louis feels like shit. Without fail, his mother always somehow makes him feel like shit. 

The conversations of the last thirty minutes are blurring together in his head, merging to form a chaotic whole. The two sides of his life are colliding, when he's always tried his upmost to keep them apart. Is he Louis Tomlinson: a massive fuck up with an even more fucked up past? The boy who can't stand his mother and perhaps loves his sisters too much, the way a father should and the way a brother should never have to? Or is he Gregory Stone: internationally famous poet, shrouded in mystery? Is he missing his potential or has he fulfilled it? His head is thrumming _LouisGregoryLouisGregoryLouisGregoryLouisGregory_ and he just wants it to stop, wants the constant noise of his mind to fade out until there's just silence. He's always loved words, but right now, he'd give anything for them to stop. He'd give anything to find out which man he truly is. Because he's beginning to think that he's neither of them. 

And next, when his phone on the table buzzes with a text from Liam that reads " _Zayn's asked me out to lunch??!!!!???!!!!! For tomorrow, on my break???!!!! Does that even count as a date, or is he just being friendly? H.E. L. P._ " Louis finds that he doesn't want to be either. He doesn't want to be Louis or Gregory: he just wants to be alone, because it looks like he's gonna be, whether Louis wants it or not. 

So Louis leaves the house straight away, flinging his denim jacket over his shoulders. He brings only the absolute essentials in his pockets: his wallet, phone, cigarettes, driver's license that he never uses. He slams the apartment door shut behind him and full-out sprints to the elevator, jamming at the button rapidly. But it's too slow for him, so he takes the stairs, nearly tumbling down the six flights to the lobby. Louis rushes out of the building, shoving his way through the noisy London crowds with his shoulders hunched over. Normally, he loves the bustle of the streets, thrives off the anonymity of it, but currently, everyone is in his fucking way and he could nearly slit their throats for it. 

Louis doesn't know where he's going, and for once in his life, he doesn't care. He's never had a direction, and it always hurt him, but tonight, it's strangely exhilarating. Louis is craving to get lost, because there's no better way to hide. His feet just carry him forward aimlessly, and he lets them, using his elbows to shove a path through all the people. He walks and he walks and he walks, mumbling vehement curses under his breath and holding back tears. Louis can feel his blood thrumming through his body, making his hands clench into fists in his pockets. He's restless, furious, and Louis knows he'll end up in a bad place tonight if he's not careful. He'd crash a random party and get hammered, maybe snog some pretty boys and break a couple hearts along the way. Or he'll pop some pills given to him and not remember a thing the next morning. Or, best of all, he'd get into a fight. Louis would love to punch somebody, wants the pain of bruised knuckles and broken ribs and a split lip. Maybe one- or all of- these things would make everything stop. 

Louis pauses at whatever building he's outside of, getting out of the crowd and leaning against the stone wall. He bows over at the waist and takes a few deep breaths, trying to ease the stitch in his chest and calm himself. He imagines Liam is with him, putting a gentle hand on his back, murmuring nonsensical words of comfort. But even that isn't enough to help, because Liam's not there. He never is anymore. He's at work, doing what he loves, making heart eyes at a beautiful painter that wants to take him on a lunch date. Louis realizes that for the first time in four months of working at the hospital, this is the first time that he won't be home when Liam comes in from his shift. He won't be there to ask how it went, if anything extremely tragic happened, if Liam is doing alright. 

And what makes Louis saddest is that he doesn't feel any guilt. 

Louis leans up from his position, dropping his head backward to rest against the wall. The chill of the stone is leeching into his skin, and he turns, pressing his fingertips to the cold white marble. His eyes narrow at the familiarity of the texture, a possibility of his current location clicking in his head. He whirls around and takes a few steps to the right, gazing up at the faded sign above his head. How many times has he reverently touched the peeling gold letters? 

_The Royal London Library._

Because, of course, Louis went to the one place he has always felt safest. He didn't even knowingly think about it, his legs instinctually knew where he wanted to be. Where he _needed_ to be. The shelves of a library are his sanctuary, books his escape. Reading is the only form of escapism that Louis possesses that has never once hurt him. And tonight, when he's clearly not in the right state of mind and he'd probably wind up seeing Liam at work if he went anywhere else, he needs to read. Louis will read others' words until the hateful ones in his head stop. 

He marches up the steps of the building, a determined set to his jaw. He grabs the cold door handle and then hesitates to tug it open, biting his lower lip. This place, for all it's goodness, is still where a certain Harry Styles works. But then Louis decides to just fuck it. His dislike for one single librarian at this place is not going to stop him from receiving the theraputic magic of books.The library is rather massive, so he might not see him. But Louis has never managed to avoid Harry in the past, as luck would have it, so he's gonna brace himself for the worst and expect to bump into the curly-haired demon at some point tonight. But hey, speaking to Harry might give him an excuse to get into a fistfight and be totally justified, so it could be worth it!

 

Louis calms down as soon as he steps inside, carefully wiping his gritty shoes on the mat beneath his feet. He inhales deeply, the familiar smell of worn leather, paper, and ink soothing him. He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up on a hook. Treading forward quietly, Louis doesn't bother looking at the directory. He's just gonna wander and find whatever books come his way. Leaving the lobby, Louis goes down a hallway, his feet silent in the plushy carpet. He gently runs his hands down the spines of a shelf of books, loving the rough texture beneath his fingertips. He can hear the books whispering to him, their pages rustling and beguiling him to pick them up. _Choose me, Louis_ they whisper teasingly. _Choose me, I know you want to. Read my story, escape with me. Lose yourself in my pages, and then find yourself again._

He stalks the shelves for what feels like hours, carrying an ever-growing stack of books in his arms. (They're almost higher than his head now, but shh, he's 5' 9", he swears.) Louis has got a wide selection going, ranging from _Frankenstein_ to The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants, and everything in between. He has some old favourites in there, and books he's warranting a second read, and some that he's never read before. But at the very bottom of the pile, the one digging sharply into his forearms, a book he absolutely needed to find first, is _Sense and Sensibilty_. Granted, it's no P &P, but is anything? All copies of that were checked out, and this is a good second choice, when it comes to Austen. 

Louis staggers forward with all the books in his arms, cursing the heaviness of hardbacks. He pushes open a door with his foot, entering yet another room. It's the circular science room where Liam was studying a couple weeks back, before they'd seen the flyer for Nameless' performance at the Fiddler. Before they met Niall and he easily wormed his way into both their hearts. Before Harry's 20th birthday party. Before Zayn enter their lives (particularly Liam's life) and started fucking with Louis' hopes and dreams..... 

But books! Books make things okay, and right now, all he wants is to read. But not in this vast, circular room, with too much moonlight shining in through the glass ceiling. He feels enough like glass as it is: fragile and transparent and shattered. Louis doesn't want to get absorbed in a novel surrounded by medical textbooks and a creepy skeleton. He remembers the comfy green armchair, down the hallway to his left. That place was quite inviting, with books on all sides, bright chandeliers overhead, and the enigmatic feeling of being hidden in plain sight. 

Unfortunately, it's also the sight of one of the most humilating moments of Louis' 22 years on this earth. But he forces himself not to care, because Harry might not be there. And even if he is, so what? It's a pubic place, Louis is definitely allowed in this library. Actually, if Harry annoys him enough, maybe Louis could even report him to his boss for patron harrassment and get him in trouble. That'd wipe the arrogant smirk right off his face, wouldn't it? Not that Louis wants to ruin the guy's life, or anything. He's not intentionally evil, he's more "chaotic neutral." But if Harry pisses him off enough, with the mood that Louis is in tonight, he might be calling up Queen Elizabeth herself and getting her to tell Harry Styles off. 

With his plan of ringing up the reigning monarch of Great Britain, Louis sets forward towards the aforementioned hallway, balancing his mountain of books in his arms. He kicks open the door with his foot and steps inside the corridor, giving himself a few seconds to adjust to the dim light. He narrows his eyes and peers forward, making out the empty armchair at the end of the shelves. It looks like it's waiting for him, begging to be curled up in. He smiles faintly, a warmth he can't explain deep in his stomach, and walks toward it, his strides getting faster and faster as he gets close. At the chair, he gently puts the stack of novels down on the ground and sinks down into it. Resting his head against a plump cushion, he shuts his eyes and blows out a grateful breath. Peace, at last. 

Or maybe not. Because he hasn't checked if Harry's there yet, lurking behind the shelf in front of Louis, like a harpy waiting to devour its prey. Lou leans forward, his heart in his throat. He's not up for this tonight, he's really not. Any desire for a fight that he once had is now gone, and he just wants to rest. Rest his body and rest his mind. He puts a hand on one of the books in front of him, and then cringes. It's the same massive red one as before, the book he basically slammed on his foot. Nice. Gritting his teeth in determination, Louis pushes the book to the side, leaving an open space on the shelf. He takes a shallow breath, trying to be as quiet as possible, and then peers forward, looking through the gap. 

Harry's not there. No one is. He's all alone. 

Louis flops back against the armchair, letting out a breathless, delighted laugh. He then grabs for the first book in his pile, _Anna Karenina_ , and settles down into his seat, getting more comfortable. He turns so he's sitting in the armchair sideways, his legs hanging over one arm and his head using the other as a pillow. Proper? No. But comfortable? Hell fucking yeah. Louis rests the heavy hardback on his legs, opening to the first page. He grazes his fingers lightly across first chapter title, his eyes flicking quickly over the opening line of the classic novel.  
" _All happy families are alike: each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way_." 

Damn right, Leo Tolstoy. Damn right. 

 

Louis makes it 150 pages before his tranquility is interuppted. He's sat still for so long that he's got a painful crick in his neck, and his feet are tingling from lack of blood flow. He hears the creaking of squeaky wooden floorboards as somebody obviously walks closer to him, and Louis shuts his eyes in despair. He knows what's coming, _who's_ coming (not an innuendo), and an hour and a half of beautiful writing couldn't make him ready. 

"Fancy seeing you here, Louis." Harry says lowly, speaking even slower than normal. And this guy already talks like he on pause, so that is definitely saying something. Now, it's like he's on rewind, his words tripping and dragging over each other. Louis' eyes reluctantly travel upward from his book and look at Harry, starting from his feet. He's wearing those God-awful boots again, which Louis will never understand. They've got legit heels, and a guy like Harry doesn't need to be made any taller. His jeans are so tight, Louis thinks that they'll decrease Harry's chance of having offspring someday by at least 40%. He's wearing this weird purple cashmere shirt thing that billows out at the arms. The top three buttons are undone, making the ivory skin of Harry's throat visible. And to top it all off (quite literally), he's adorning his hair with a bandana, a thick black swatch of fabric that's barely even holding his curls back. 

The whole outfit is ridiculous, and it doesn't even match, and it shouldn't work, at all. And yet, on Harry, it somehow does. He's somehow making it look elegant and casual at the same time, slouching around in it like he's wearing any old thing. Louis suddenly feels underessed in his Toms, sweats, and blue jumper that probably has coffee stains on it. God, he hates this guy. What is it about him that constantly makes Louis feel inadequate?

Harry saunters forward slowly, his head held loftily in the air. Louis turns so he's sitting properly in the chair and closes his book with a snap, dropping it down on his thigh to cover the title. Harry has already insulted his writing skills to a vast degree: Louis doesn't need him censuring his choice of reading material as well. Harry continues to walk until he's right in front of Louis, looming down at him. Louis fidgets uncomfortably, but resiliently raises his head and meets Harry's gaze. His eyes are cloudy tonight, not exuding their normal light. However, they're just as piercing as ever, their biting sharpness extenuated by Harry's hair being pulled away from his face. 

From his proximity, Louis can smell that Harry absolutely _reeks_ of weed, which explains a lot of things. It explains his slowness of speech, the exaggerated languidity of his movements, and the lurking shadows in his eyes. Depending on when he first took a hit, it might also explain his clothes, but Louis thinks that that's just pure Harry. He's still looking at Louis, waiting for a reason to his being here. Louis fights a grin, because you know, this could be good fun. High people are great to screw with.  
"Hello!" Louis says cheerily, waving his fingers in Harry's direction. The other guy watches the movement, a crease between his eyes like he can't understand how somebody has the dexterity to complete that action. "You're stoned, aren't ya?"  
"I am." Harry replies with a slow nod of his head.  
"More importantly, you're stoned at work. Can't that get you in some kind of trouble? What if your boss walked in right now?"  
"Doubt it." Harry says with a shrug. He glances down at his feet and sways a little from side to side. Louis thinks he'll fall over, and he's wondering how he'll hold back his laughter if he does. "There's no supervision, at all. I once brought a guy I met at a club here, because my flat was being renovated at the time. Brought him up to the stacks and-"  
" _Oh_ -kay!" Louis says with a brisk clap of his hands, cursing the blush that spread across his cheeks. "Marijuana seems to have greatly lowered your inhibitions, but I really, _really_ don't care to here that particular tale. Now, why don't you sit down in this chair, yeah? Don't want you collapsing on me, I'm useless in emergencies."  
"That was before I was with Nick, of course." Harry mumbles, continuing to speak as Louis scrambles out of the armchair and basically forces Harry into it.  
"Ah yes, before you met Mr. Right and got tied down." Louis says, fighting an eyeroll. He doesn't know what kind of stoner Harry is yet, but if he's the sentimental, emotional type, then Louis will grab whatever books he can carry and bolt out of there. Harry frowns, his eyebrows drawing in. He fumbles to grab Louis' elbow, holding on tightly and making him look at him. His eyes, despite being still clouded, are burning with intensity. Louis is locked in their green light: he wants to move, wants to run. But he can't. 

"I'm not a cheater." Harry says hollowly. "Do I seem like the kind of person that would cheat on somebody to you?"  
And Louis can honestly say, that out of everything he thinks Harry Styles is, a cheater is not one of them. Arrogant, yes. Pretentious, yes. A dickhead, yes. But a cheater, no. He'd seemed totally devoted to his boyfriend that day Louis saw them together. It was the best Harry that Louis had personally ever seen. So, Louis slowly shakes his head, not breaking eye contact with Harry. The librarian relaxes, as if Louis' opinion suddenly means something to him. He releases his tight grasp on Louis' elbow and flops down against the armchair, shutting his eyes. Louis breathes a sigh of relief as the imprisoning emerald disappears.  
"Good, because I'm not." he says, his voice growing fierce. "I'd never do that, I don't understand how he can possibly think- _why_ does he think-"  
Harry trails off and he gives a dry hiccup, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Louis blinks slowly, putting the pieces together. Tonight, Grimmy must've accused Harry of cheating on him, and they're either broken up or still fighting. Then, he'd gotten high to try and take the pain away. And when that didn't work, he came here, because he didn't know where else to go. Niall and Gemma both dislike Grimmy, so they won't commiserate with him, and Louis isn't sure how many true friends Harry has, besides those two. 

With a start, Louis realizes that _he's_ gonna have to be the person that guides Harry through the first awful night of a break-up. Him, Louis Tomlinson, the least romantically successful person on the planet. He even wrote a bloody book about it. Fuck's sake, is he gonna have to hold Harry's hand and stroke his hair while he cries and supply him with ice cream? Louis did not sign up for that shit. But he's got to do something, because Harry's sitting there like somebody just shot his puppy. Actually, he's sitting there like he is the shot puppy, his lower lip sliding out into an ostentatious pout, and Louis better say something, because what if he really does start to cry?

"Are you and Grimmy over?" he asks quietly. Smooth, Tommo, smooth. Remind the guy of his current relationship status. Harry scowls automatically, a grimace etched across his face.  
"No!" he says vehemently, with more fire than Louis expected. "No, we're not!"  
"Alright." Louis says with a nod of his head, some annoyance creeping through him at Harry's tone. He's not the one that got Harry into his current state: his obviously shit boyfriend did. "Well, I'm going to assume you guys have had a fight, and probably both said some things you regret. If you'd like, I'm even willing to sit here and listen to you tell me about this fight, so then maybe I can understand it, and you can too." 

Harry glances at him, narrowing his eyes. Louis wishes he'd just fucking relax his tense shoulders and stop acting like Louis is the attacker here. He slumps, deflating against the armchair and letting out a long breath. Harry reaches up and tugs at his bandana, retying it absent-mindedly, like he is trying to keep himself occupied.  
"We fight a lot." Harry admits, not looking at Louis. He sounds almost blasé, like this isn't a big thing to be admitting to basically a stranger. Well, maybe Louis and Harry aren't strangers anymore, but they certainly aren't friends. "Over stupid shit. Some days, I think we'd fight over the colour of the sky. But we still- we still love each other, despite that." 

Harry pauses, swallowly hard. He gives the knot of his bandana another tug, but Louis can still see his fingers shaking. He presses his lips together tightly, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and then opens his mouth to speak again.  
"I still love him, despite that. And usually, we can get over our fights quickly. They're more like squabbles really, and he'll bring me flowers or I'll cook him dinner and then all will be well. But tonight- tonight, it wasn't. I went over to his place, and he was just sitting there, waiting for me. He looked so furious, but he wasn't...he just seemed disappointed in me. Like he'd expected something like this from me all along. But I didn't- I couldn't do that to him. I literally only look at him, and he thinks I've been out fucking someone else while he works late nights on the radio." 

Harry passes a hand over his eyes and then grips a few of his curls tightly, the tips of his fingers turning red from the pressure. Louis is half tempted to pat him on the shoulder or something, but then decides that'd be pushing both their boundaries. Harry sighs deeply, resting his elbows on his knees and putting his head in his hands.  
"Grimmy told me to get out of his sight." he whispers. "So, I ran out before I realized what I was doing. I didn't even try to defend myself, so he must be convinced it's true. And then, I couldn't even go home, because my jacket with my keys inside it are still in his flat, and Niall's away, doing a gig with Nameless in Whales, of all places. So, with both him and Gemma gone, I came here."  
"You're gonna spend the night here?" Louis asks disbelievingly, looking around them.  
"Yes." Harry says, arching an eyebrow. (Or trying to: his high seems to limit his facial functions.) "It wouldn't be the first time for me. Something wrong with that?"  
"No!" Louis says hurriedly, not wanting him to blow up. He doesn't even think to ask why the fuck has Harry spent nights here before. "Just...why not a hotel? That'd be comfier, right?"  
"Maybe so, but this costs me nothing. And I like being near the books. The smell of paper and ink calms me." 

Okay, so maybe it kinda unsettles Louis that he and Harry Styles escape to the same place. And they have the exact same paper/ink fetish. Louis knows that he's fucked up, but Harry seems to have a million more problems. A shitty choice in men being only one of the list. He guesses that they can't fall for kind-hearted surgeons. Louis doesn't want to have anything in common with him, but it's not that rare to be a book lover. Maybe he just likes the library because it's his workplace, and he feels a natural sense of order here.  
"So, are you gonna go back to see Grimmy tomorrow?" Louis asks cautiously. "And- try to sort things out?"  
"I don't want to talk about this anymore." Harry says petulantly, sounding everything like one of Louis' sisters when they're in a strop. He draws his ridiculously long legs up to his chin and wraps his arms around himself, resting his head on his kneecaps. "I'd like to talk about something else."  
"I think you should at least have some idea of what you're gonna do-" Louis starts, but then Harry turns to him again, his eyes blazing with terrifying ferocity.  
"Well, I don't particularly care what you think!" he snaps. "It's my life, and I'm not being told how to live it, especially not by you. You're just the poor sod that I happened to be sitting next to while I came down from my high. This past conversation has changed absolutely nothing between us. I still don't care for you. Actually, I find you rather absurd, with your overeager hyperactivity and that hair that always needs a trim, and how you act like you don't give a shit, when really, you waffle around everyone like a mother hen. So, either leave the library, or _talk about something else_." 

Louis blinks, feeling fresh rage fill his limbs. Who the fuck thinks they can get away with talking to Louis like that? Talking to anyone like that? Every time Louis feels the tiniest bit sorry for Harry, or starts to think that maybe he's actually human after all, he goes and pulls something like this. Something to make Louis hate him all over again. Does Harry want to be despised by literally everyone he comes into contact with? And Louis did not just sit here for nearly an hour, listen to this awful human/robot/alien/pieceofshit/thing moan about his ex, to be treated like _that_. He has enough problems of his own, goddammit!

The next book at the top of Louis' pile, _Confessions of a Shopaholic_ , hits Harry in the chest. He catches it with an agility that only someone used to handling books can have, and then looks up as Louis strides away, his own arms full of novels.  
"Where are you going?" Harry calls after him. Louis doesn't stop as he answers, throwing back over his shoulder.  
"You wanted to talk about something else, fine. Judge my choice of books all you want. I'm going to the check out, and you better be following me, carrying whatever books remain on the floor by your boots."  
"Why?"  
"You're still a librarian, aren't you? Ring me the fuck up, so I can get the fuck out of here." 

 

Checking out all his books takes _ages_. 

Louis knows there's a lot, but he also isn't blind, and he can see that Harry is doing every movement ten times slower than it needs to be. He looks up every book number, for one thing, instead of scanning its barcode. Also, every single book gets a receipt of it's very own, tucked behind the front cover. And Harry even seems to be checking them out alphabetically, by author and title. Louis swears the little shit is just doing it to spite him, but God knows what for. 

With every book, Louis can see Harry's physical reaction to it. And most are uninspiring. He'll raise his eyebrows or click his tongue or purse his lips in disapproval. It gets so bad, that eventually Louis has had enough of his unspoken snide comments and he wants to hear them. At least that way, he could defend his choices.  
"Go on, then." Louis huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "Tell me what you think."  
"I don't have the pleasure of understanding you." Harry says smoothly, stacking some books in a neat pile. Louis snorts at his word choice, because seriously, what the fuck?  
"You understand me fine. Give your opinion on my selection, every single one if you must, because that might make this go faster, and I'd listen to any garbage you spew to go home."  
"As you wish." Harry says with a smirk, reaching for a book with nimble fingers. He holds it in front of Louis, who reads the title quickly. _Bleak House_ , by Charles Dickens. 

"Okay, I get he's a classic novelist and all, but this seems to be trying a bit too hard. All his novels are as depressing as the grave: did we really need the word "bleak" in the title? Like we didn't know what we were getting into? Plus, he seems to be reaching for a plot, what with the whole mother/daughter connection. Who didn't see that one coming?"  
"Me." Louis quips, grabbing the book from his hands. He gives it a reconcilatory pat, as if he's trying to sooth it's hurt feelings. "As I haven't actually read it yet. Next." 

_You can have Dickens. I like Charlie, but fine, go ahead. Take that conquest in this weird game we're playing._

Next comes _Jane Eyre._

"The plot and setting are rather invigorating in this, truthfully. But the narrator...All she does is complain, but in a discreet way. It's like poor Jane wants everyone to feel sorry for her and all her misfortunes, but would never dream of actually voicing them. The entire book makes the reader feel like shit for not being as "strong" as Jane." 

_Take Charlotte Brontë. Take all three Brontë sisters: I don't give a fuck. I just wanna go home and see Liam_. 

_Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ is the next victim. And seriously? Harry fucking Styles is seriously going to criticize Harry fucking Potter? The YA novel that changed the entire genre, or perhaps even created it? The book series that shaped a generation? Stories that made millions across the planet believe in magic: true magic, the magic of the written word? 

"I never found this entire series particularly inspiring. The books are rather boring, honestly, because the author uses the same receipe for each one. There's a foreboding warning at the beginning of every school year, and yet Harry continues to return anyway. Ominous events occur throughout the school year, and all blatantly obvious signals are ignored. And then the good guy fights the bad guy at the end, and miraculously, always survives, despite not being fully trained and much younger." 

_You don't deserve to share the name of the Boy Who Lived!_

"But the seventh book is just messily thrown together. I think J.K. Rowling had made her millions at this point, and she genuinely didn't care how it ended. Because really, the epilogue? Waving good-bye to _Albus Severus_? The namesake of the two guys that lied to him and screwed him over the most? Why not Ron Remus? Or Fred Sirius? Seriously, Hagrid Hedwig Dobby would've been better!" 

_Don't agree, Louis Tomlinson, don't you fucking dare agree. Harry Potter was the first book series you loved as a kid: don't let a mediocre epilogue negate your love of the entire seven amazing books. Don't agree with this shitbag. He can take J.K. Rowling too, even though it pains you._

 

Harry finally relents, stacking more of the books neatly. Louis breathes out a sigh of relief, glad that the onslaught on his reading material seems to be over. They continue in silence for awhile, Harry just scanning his books and Louis grabbing them from his hands as quickly as possible, as if the libriarian's mere touch would harm them. They reach the very end of the pile, the last book left sitting there on the counter. And of course, it's _Sense and Sensibility_. 

Louis feels nauseous as Harry picks the book up, turning it over and over in his hands. He reads the title and author, but his face remains completely impassive. Louis shuts his eyes, praying that Harry doesn't slander Jane Austen. He can deal with the comments towards everyone else, but don't touch Jane. Insult Louis' reading, his writing, his entire being, but not Jane. 

"I should've known." Harry says with a snort. "You're a Janeite through and through."  
Louis fights a scream as Harry wantonly tosses the book down on the counter after scanning it. He scrambles to pick it up, hurriedly checking the spine for damage. He can feel Harry's amusement radiating off him as Louis continues his administrations to the book.  
"What's that supposed to mean?" he huffs, refusing to look at Harry directly. Louis knows he'll snap if he does.  
"You're the type." Harry says shortly, raising up the divide of the counter and stepping out past it, closing it with his hip. "The type to adore Jane Austen."  
"So, you obviously mean the smart type."  
"No." Harry quips, fiddling with his bandana again. Louis wants to tie it around the fucker's neck and strangle him with it. "The whimsical type. The type to dream of falling in love by the light of a ballroom. The type with their heads up in the clouds, fantasizing about Edmund Ferris playing pirate with your little sister, or George Knightley nobly asking the illegitimate girl to dance, or Fitzwilliam Darcy emerging soaking wet from a lake."  
"For someone who doesn't like Austen, you seem to know an awful lot about her novels!" Louis says hotly, feeling his ears flush. Because yes, in lonely quiet hours, he has thought about those things. More than once, if he's honest. 

But that's not a bad thing!!! 

"Everything I know was learned through pure contempt." Harry says with a harsh scoff. "I cannot stand anything about her: her writing style, her plot lines, the time period that every single Austen book is set in. Everything she writes is so trite. It's all manners and dances and people not saying what they truly feel, and we fucking have enough of that in the real world. We definitely don't need it in shitty literature as well." 

_He didn't not just call Jane Austen's work "shitty literature"._

_He did not._

_I'm not letting him take Jane_. 

 

Louis feels all the rage from earlier this evening boil up inside him and spill over. He's angry at Charlotte for getting drunk. He's angry at his mother, for once proving him wrong. He's angry at his editor, for being so confident that he'll write ever again. He's angry at Liam for not loving him back, at least for not loving Louis the way Louis loves him. He's angry at himself, for coming here at all, for caring about what Harry thinks at all, for being pathetic in every way. But mostly, he's angry at Harry Styles, for daring to criticize the one thing that has only ever brought Louis joy. Never pain, never sadness, never anger: just pure joy. 

"IT'S LOVE." Louis screams, throwing his hands up into the air as his voice rings out in the otherwise silent library. Harry startles at the sound and flinches away from Louis' arms, pressing his back against the countertop. Louis presses forward, until they're standing mere inches away from each other, the toes of his Toms pressing against the toes of Harry's boots. Normally, he'd been intimidated, but not now. Rage has given him courage. Or else, it's simple stupidity.  
"It's love." he repeats, feeling his voice waver with emotion. "It's love in many forms. Friends, siblings, parents, couples. Her books show love at first sight, or hatred at first sight. They show enemies becoming lovers and lovers becoming enemies. They teach lessons of prudence, and grace, and humility. You fall in love with the characters as they fall in- and out- of love with each other." 

Louis pauses to take a raggedy breath, ready to launch in again. Harry is watching him with wide green eyes, looking truly shocked, and Louis feels pride burst through him. He's happy he's shocked him, happy he's made Harry feel anything except arrogance and conceit.  
"Reading something by Austen, you learn to not jump to conclusions, to read between the lines, to follow the story as it goes, and never try to predict the ending. They're funny, they're satirical, they're smart. Her manipulation of the tropes of her time is downright masterful, and her books always leave me with something new, everytime I reread them." 

Louis holds up _Sense and Sensibility_ , tapping the author's name as if to reiterate who they're talking about. Harry tracks the movement, biting his lower lip. Louis' fury is cooling, leaving him with just an acute exhaustion. But he still has more to say.  
"And yes, there's obvious romance in here. There's dancing in ballrooms and there's proposals and there's _love_. And if you can't see that, if you can't see that the overwhelming message of Austen is "Love, despite faults," then I pity you. Because that means that you've never had examples of love like that in your life." 

Louis finally falls silent, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. Harry is just watching him, studying him intently. For once, Louis doesn't shrink under his gaze, holding himself at his full height. Everything he just said is true, and clearly, something Harry should fucking hear. He already hates Louis as it is, so why not make him detest him more? Harry tilts his head to the side, one of his curls falling past the bandana and lying across his high forehead.  
"Why did you come here tonight, Louis?" he whispers at last, his warm breath tickling Louis' skin. "Because I doubt it was just to get more books. I even doubt it was to yell at me, though you seemed to thoroughly enjoy that."  
"I don't have to explain myself to you." Louis half-growls, narrowing his eyes into slits.  
"No, you don't." Harry agrees with a supple nod. "But I think you could do with explaining it to yourself. Why'd you come here?"  
"Because I had an irrepressible yearning to be mocked by you, you stuck up arse!"  
"I don't think that's it. I think you're afraid to admit that you've got just as many problems as I do. Perhaps more."  
"As if." Louis says sarcastically, clenching his hands into fists by his sides. "I'm _nothing_ like you."  
"Why'd you come here?" Harry asks one last time, and Louis snaps.  
" _The smell of paper and ink calms me, alright_?" 

They stare at each other in stunned silence for a few agonizingly long moments. Harry's explaination for staying the night at the library echoes and richoets around in Louis' brain. And it's obviously doing the same in Harry's, because a smug, triumpant smile is stretching across his rosy lips.  
"See?" he says, his voice hushed. "We have more in common than you like to think. Is being similar to me really that bad?"  
"Fuck you." Louis snarls, stepping back from Harry. He grabs whatever books he can carry, making sure to have the four Harry ridiculed. Louis can feel Harry watching him, can feel those awful eyes boring into his back, and he mumbles bitter curses under his breath. He turns on his heels with his books in his arms, and then they're looking at each other again. Louis sure as fuck isn't going to speak first. 

"Enjoy your books." Harry says cooly, inclining his head down elegantly. Louis chokes at how suddenly, effortlessly, relaxed he is, and shakes his head firmly. He'll say nothing else, because he honestly has nothing to say to Harry anymore. Louis whirls around and strides away, _Sense and Sensibility_ pressed against his chest, right over his pounding heart. 

The smell of paper and ink follows him, making his head pound too. It doesn't calm him that night, and Louis doubts it ever will again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's pretend that I didn't not update for a month and a half XD 
> 
> Wanna tell me what you think of this chapter? :3

_"My idea of good company...is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company._ '  
' _You are mistaken,' said he gently, 'that is not good company; that is the best_.”- Jane Austen, Persuasion. 

Because Louis is a literary scholar, the symbol of snow has come to mean many things to him. Snow can be a blanket, or a coffin. A welcome winter wonderland or the destruction of a harvest, if it falls too soon. It can mean innocence, thereby becoming less and less innocent as time passes and it melts away. Seriously, before Louis majored in English, he never would've known how many symbolic purposes this form of precipitation had. He thought it was just cold stuff that fell from the sky! But right now, snow only means one thing in the life of Louis Tomlinson. It means his roommate is having a panic attack. 

And true to form, it’s February 25th, it’s snowing outside, and Liam is locked in his bedroom, hyperventilating. Louis stands outside the room, looking at the scratched wooden door in despair. How the hell is he supposed to get Liam out of here? It’s only been snowing for thirty minutes, and it wasn’t even on the weather forecast! Louis had run up to the corner shop half an hour ago, and it was fine. When he’d come back out, the entire world had gone white, and Louis hurried home as quickly as he could, knowing Liam would be a mess. 

Unfortunately, he hadn’t made it back in time to intercept Liam before he locked his bloody bedroom door. Liam can’t be by himself on nights like this, Louis had learned that the first winter he’d ever known him. He needs to get in there. Jiggling the doorknob loosely, the writer leans his head against the door, listening to the sounds of Liam panicking. He’s breathing heavily and gasping at odd intervals, sounding terrified.  
“Li.” he whispers gently. “Please let me in.” 

Liam’s ragged breathing momentarily ceases, and Louis can almost see him frantically shaking his head. You’d think that a medical professional would know what’s best for him in moments like these, but that’s Liam in a nutshell. He takes care of everyone, except himself. Louis toys with the doorknob again, tapping two fingers against the rusty hinge.  
“Liam, I think it’ll help if you let me in.” he says, his voice measured. “It’ll….hurt less. You’ll have someone to talk to about everything.”  
“I don’t wanna talk.” Liam gasps out, and Louis’ heart leaps, because at least he’s responsive in there.. “I can’t talk, I can’t breathe. I can’t come out.”  
“You don’t have to come out.” Louis responds, shutting his eyes because he’s not getting any fucking where. And if he glances out the window, he can see that the snow is getting heavier. Fantastic.  
“Yes, I do!” Liam sputters, sounding hysterical. “Because- because he’ll be here soon, and he doesn’t know about any of my fucking problems, because it’s only our first real date and things like post traumatic stress over fucking _snow_ don’t generally come up.”

Oh yeah. 

Zayn Malik was picking Liam up for dinner soon. 

Like _dinner_ dinner, Like, _let’s hold hands across the table and tell each other our life stories and then fight to pay the check_ dinner. Like a dinner _date_. 

Because that lunch they’d had together in the hospital cafeteria last week went really well. So well that Liam came home from work that night with shining eyes and a huge smile, Zayn’s number scrawled on a napkin clenched in his fist. And since then, Louis had gotten very used to hearing Liam’s phone chime with a text, had gotten very used to Liam’s delighted blush every time a new message came in. And before either of them knew what was happening, this plan had been set. Zayn was picking Liam up at 6:00 on Saturday evening, February 25th, and they were going for dinner. They were going on a date. 

Louis doesn’t know how he forgot, but he wishes he could make it happen again. He shuts his eyes once more and leans his full weight against the doorframe. Partly because he doesn’t think he can hold himself up, and partly because he wonders if he could bodily bring the door down and get to Liam that way.  
“Why don’t you contact him?” Louis then asks, swallowing hard. “You could call him or text him, or I could even do it for you, if you gave me the number-”  
“No!” Liam bursts out, sounding even more frantic. “Don’t do that. What if he’s driving and it distracts him?”  
“Okay, fair point.” Louis amends, cringing at himself. “Then why don’t you just wait until he gets here, I’ll answer the door and excuse you somehow. It’s flu season, yeah? That’s easy enough to say, especially with your job. I’m sure he won’t mind if you cancel-”  
“But I-” Liam says, his voice sounding weaker but calmer as they formulate a plan. Liam’s all about plans: he’d basically had his entire life mapped out since he was thirteen. Unfortunately, there were a few curveballs thrown in there, one of which now has him locked in his room during a snowstorm.  
“But what, Leyum?” Louis prompts, feeling the affection bleed into his tone, pushing past the worry.  
“I don’t want to cancel on him.” Liam whispers, his voice barely there. “I want to see him.” 

And Louis wants to go lay out in the snow and let it cover him like the world’s shittiest symbolic blanket. (Seriously, who the fuck thought that metaphor up?) Louis bits his lip, tasting the bitter tang of blood. Liam truly likes Zayn, then. Liam likes Zayn enough to let him see him at his weakest, which says a lot. Nearly too much for Louis’ heart to take. Liam is the world’s most closed off person. Where Louis has emotional walls, Liam has Walls Upon Walls Upon Walls. He doesn’t get close to anyone, ever: Louis was the only exception in that regard, and even then it’d taken him _months_ to get past Wall One. And Zayn, someone that Louis has only met once (while wildly intoxicated) and knows essentially nothing about, seems to be ploughing right through Liam’s walls like they’re nothing. Or else, Liam is letting them fall willingly.

Louis doesn’t know what hurts more. But he still won’t deny Liam anything. Louis can’t do that. 

“Then you will.” Louis whispers, pressing his head against the bedroom door. “I’ll let him in and you’ll see him.”  
And then, the doorbell rings, a cheery _ding-dong_ that’s terrible juxtaposition against the current atmosphere. But that’s how Louis’ life seems to be going: it’s plot is running away from him. Whoever’s writing Louis’ story needs to get their shit under control. He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders back, and leaves Liam’s door, going down the hallway and into the living room of the flat. He pauses before the front door, feeling his heart rollick against his ribs. Zayn is waiting behind that door, waiting expectantly for Liam. 

And Liam’s waiting expectantly for Zayn, and he wants Louis to bring him in. 

Louis grits his teeth, steps forward, and tugs the door open. Zayn stands patiently on the weathered door mat, carefully scraping off the soles of his snowy shoes. Louis just stares at him for a few moments, mostly because he can’t fucking help it. Louis isn’t attracted to Zayn, not at all, but he can’t deny that the painter is...aesthetically pleasing. He’s wearing black skinny jeans that barely leave anything to the imagination, a gray jumper than falls over his hands and yet still manages to cling to his biceps, and a matching gray beanie, pulled low over his ears. The lighter colors are beautifully contrasted against his tanner skin, giving him a healthy glow that’s rare in English winters. And he’s smiling at Louis, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the sides. 

“Hey, man!” Zayn says cheerily, shoving his hand towards Louis to shake. “Great to see you again!”  
Louis smiles back, giving a nod of his head because he isn’t quite sure how to respond. (He doesn’t really agree, is the thing. He certainly hadn’t expected to see Zayn again, but here they were.) They shake hands and Louis steps aside from the doorway, letting Zayn into the house. He just stands to the side for a couple seconds, looking around him. Probably looking for Liam.  
“Liam around?” he asks, almost on cue, and Louis can hear the slight tremor of nerves in his voice. Despite his outwardly cool persona, Zayn is nervous to see Liam again. 

As they stand there, Louis’ stomach twists with something he can’t define. There’s definitely jealousy in there, and bitterness too….but there’s a faint trace of happiness, purely for Liam’s sake. If Zayn had come in here all suave and totally prepared to sweep Liam off his feet, Louis might’ve sent him packing. Because being nervous for a first date shows that you actually give a shit about the other person, and given that Liam has been stressing over this night for the past five days, it’s reassuring to know that the feelings are reciprocated, at least to some degree. 

“Umm….yeah.” Louis says haltingly, trying to consider his words. “He’s in his room.”  
“Ah, still getting ready then?” Zayn asks, trying to be jovial but failing: Louis has already seen the brief flash of panic in his eyes. He probably thinks Liam doesn’t want to go out with him and sent Louis to do the dirty work of giving Zayn some bullshit excuse. Which couldn’t be further than the truth. Zayn shoves his hands deep into his jean pockets, looking at his feet uncomfortably.  
“He’s actually not- not feeling himself tonight.” Louis says, wincing at the shadow that crosses Zayn’s face in that moment. He definitely thinks it’s an excuse, and Louis can’t really blame him. It’s what he’d think too.  
“He’s sick?” Zayn asks, his eyebrows drawing in together. “Like- a fever or somethin’?”  
“Not exactly.” Louis says carefully, not looking at the other guy. “He’s kinda- _emotional_. Snow- uh- snow stresses him out, and as you clearly know, it’s fairly coming down out there.”  
“Oh.” Zayn responds shortly. He sounds painfully disappointed, his lithe shoulders sloping over as he hangs his head. If anything, what Louis just said might’ve made things worse. If he was in Zayn’s position, Louis would rather hear that somebody was sick than they just weren’t feeling up to going out. Not that that’s the full story, but nobody ever really gets the full story anyway. 

Zayn shuffles his feet from side to side, clearly uneasy. He glances at Louis once, trying to read his expression, but then his eyes dart away again, their brown depths bottomless. The painter sighs, mumbling something under his breath and Louis strains his ears, trying to make out his words,  
“I should’ve known it was too good to be true.” Zayn whispers to himself, sounding utterly dejected. Louis feels a lurch of pain in his chest, making him inhale sharply. In Louis’ book, Zayn Malik was the luckiest guy on the planet, for getting to experience Liam’s personality in such a close way. He’s fucking blessed with even the chance, however small or large it is, of getting to call Liam Payne his. Anyone who makes Liam smile the way Zayn does must be under a lucky star. And Zayn knows it. He somehow knows how lucky he is to even get this chance to make Liam happy, and to get close to Liam in return. And fuck, Louis has to respect him for that. 

“He still wants to see you though!” Louis bursts out, just as Zayn has begun to turn back to the door, getting ready to leave. Zayn whirls around so quickly, he probably gives himself whiplash. He fixates his soulful eyes on Louis’ face, sudden hope flooding his every feature. Louis feels dizzy, because what is he doing? Why is he doing it? Zayn was fucking _leaving_ , and _Louis_ brought him _back_. 

He’s going to get very, very drunk tonight. 

“He does?” Zayn asks, looking unsure, and Louis nods hurriedly, feeling his legs tremble slightly. He fights to still them, not wanting Zayn to notice. He turns on his heels and beckons for Zayn to follow him. His hand shakes too, so he clenches it into a tight fist, hoping Zayn isn’t intimidated by the action. (Probably not, Zayn has about four inches of height on Louis. _Fuck_ ). Louis walks down the hallway towards Liam’s room, Zayn compliantly following behind him. They reach the door and Louis raps his knuckles against it weakly.  
“Liam?” he says, keeping his voice low. “Zayn’s here. Can you open the door?”  
"Nah, nah mate, it's cool." Zayn assured, putting a warm hand on Louis' forearm. "I'll just sit outside the door and we'll chat like this. Let him open the door on his own accord, like."  
And with that, Zayn sinks down to the ground, leaning against the door of Liam's bedroom. He stretches his legs out flat, tipping his head backwards and shutting his eyes. A gentle smile lingers on his plump lips as he opens his mouth to speak.  
"Hi, Liam." he says softly. "How're you doing?"  
"Not too good." Liam replies shakily, his voice weak. “I don’t- I don’t think- I really, _really_ hate myself for doing this, but I don’t think I can go outside tonight.”  
“It’s all good.” Zayn says, impossibly gentle. “We can just chill right here. chat and stuff. Get to know each other that way. Let’s talk about something else, yeah? Wanna hear about my niece’s birthday party?”  
“I’d- I’d like that.” Liam sniffles, sounding like he was surprised at even himself. But nobody was more surprised than Louis. When Liam’s like this, he doesn’t let anything distract him. It’s like his panic shrinks the list of what his brain can worry about.  
“Well,” Zayn begins, drawing one of his legs up to his chest and resting his chin on his kneecap: he’s clearly making himself comfortable. “It was last week, at my sister Doniya’s house. Princess theme, and I’m not ashamed to say that I went as Princess Zayn. I even wore a bloody tiara…”

At this, Louis turns on his heels and leaves silently, keeping his eyes cast to the ground beneath his feet. Zayn, it seems, has this one under control. 

 

Louis has just poured himself his first of many vodka shots for the evening when the doorbell rings once more. He clenches the shot glass in his fist, wondering if his tight grip will break the glass, and then downs the shot in one swift motion. Eyes watering and throat burning, he heads back towards the door, internally screaming profanities because he just wants to lock himself in the kitchen and get hammered. Maybe if he passes out, he can miss listening to the sweet, passionate sex that Zayn and Liam will undoubtedly be having tonight. 

And before you say that Louis has a perverted mind, look at it logically. It’s inevitable, really: Zayn is already outside his room, and Liam’s feeling vulnerable. All that has to happen is the door opens, Zayn goes inside, and then Louis probably drowns himself in the bathtub. But before that, he’s gotta answer this fucking door, because who’s ever behind it has now rung three times. 

Holding both the glass and vodka bottle in one hand, Louis grabs the doorknob and tugs the door open forcefully, getting ready to yell at whoever is so impatiently waiting. But as he looks at his newest unwelcome visitor, the enraged words die in his throat. Because this visitor isn’t unwelcome at all: Louis had actually invited him over, to help him pass the time when he thought that Zayn and Liam were actually vacating the premises. Unfortunately, in the melee of the past hour, Louis forgot all about that invitation until right now. 

Niall stands in the doorway, his spiky blonde hair wet with snow at the tips. He’s holding a case of soda in one gloved hand and a stack of movies in the other. And, like always, he’s beaming like a kid in a sweetshop. You’d never think that they were in the middle of a goddamn blizzard looking at Niall, and besides, that smile could probably melt the snow anyway. Louis is briefly pondering the viability of Niall-Power as the guy himself speaks.  
“Hey mate!” Niall says cheerily, wiping his snowy feet against the doormat. “I’m pumped to hang out- wait, holy shit, are you _crying_?” 

_Only on the inside_ Louis thinks to himself bitterly. _All day, everyday._ He fights a smirk at Niall’s alarm, knowing that Niall hadn’t planned on handling Louis’ emotions on their fun guy’s night. But thankfully, he hasn’t actually been crying. Louis dismissively shakes his head, holding up the vodka bottle for Niall to inspect.  
“You want one?” he asks, his voice gravelly as he pours another shot and knocks it back. Louis sputters, choking a little bit at the acrid taste. Here, Niall frowns, shaking his own head. Reaching over, he works the bottle out of Lou’s grasp, then taking the glass from his other hand. Louis initially resists, knowing that tonight will be utter shit all together if he isn’t intoxicated, but Niall is persistent. And soon enough, Louis has traded his drink for the soda and movies Niall brought.  
“It’s a bit early to be hitting the hard stuff.” Niall says lightly as Louis steps aside and lets him inside the flat. “Now, take a look at those films and pick one you’d like to watch. There’s a bunch of great ones, but my favourite is probably _The Shining_ , so I’m gonna throw in a kind word for it. Unless you’re not into the gore and stuff, which I know some people aren’t. Harry almost collapses at the sight of blood-”  
“We can watch that.” Louis interrupts weakly. “I’ve seen it, so I know what to expect. But we’ve gotta be quiet, Liam and Zayn are still here.”  
“Ah, haven’t left yet?” Niall says knowledgeably as he shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up on the coatrack. He toes off his shoes and follows Louis into the living room.  
“No, actually.” Louis says, fighting a cringe as they sink down into the couch. “Liam...he gets a bit nervous whenever it snows, so they’re just staying in. They might join us, I don’t know.”  
“Well, if they do, we’ll switch off the movie and put something a bit more romantic on.” Niall jokes. “Violent death might kill the mood.”  
“Right.” Louis says, his fingers drumming against his thighs in agitation. Standing up, he swipes the DVD from the top of the pile and puts it into the player. He then leaves Niall lying on the couch and heads into the kitchen, grabbing a family size bag of crisps from the pantry and pouring it into a bowl. He then heads back to the sofa, handing an eager Niall the bowl and then grabbing his legs, lying them flat across Louis’ lap.  
“Budge up, Horan.” he gripes good-naturedly, feeling a smile fall across his lips as Niall dives into the snack with unmatched enthusiasm. “If you’re not gonna let me drink, you can at least allow my voluptuous ass adequate space.”  
“You English people.” Niall grumbles, nudging at Louis’ thigh with his socked foot. (He’s wearing socks with the Irish flag on them, bless him). “Always trying to steal territory for the downtrodden Irish. Also, what the fuck does voluptuous mean? Everytime I speak to somebody who likes to read, like you or Harry or whatever, I get bloody lost. Dumb your speech down for us plebs, yeah?”  
“Alright, Ni.” Louis responds, firmly ignoring the clench in his gut at Niall’s innocent comparison of him to Harry. Since their last meeting, Louis has been racking his brains, trying to find the similarities that Harry implied they had. He’d come up with nothing so far, and was hoping that nobody would ever, ever mention any to him. Because after that night in the library, Louis wants to be nothing like Harry.  
“C’mon Nialler.” Louis continues, grabbing the DVD remote and pressing play. “Let’s watch a movie about the worst hotel on the planet.”

 

But Louis has barely gotten twenty minutes to peace before the two boys are disturbed. Eyes on the screen, Louis hears the quiet tread of footsteps against the wooden floors. He glances around uneasily, the horror film making him jumpy. (Louis might’ve slightly fibbed to Niall about how well he handled gore. There’s a reason he prefers Austen to King). Casting a glance behind him, he spies Zayn walking closer, a nervous expression on his handsome face. Grabbing the remote again, Louis hits pause, trying to arrange his features into something pleasant. Hopefully a smile. Niall’s head snaps up from where he was concentrating on the film, but he too looks up and smiles at Zayn approaching them. Zayn looks at the blonde-haired boy in surprise, his brown eyes flicking to where Niall’s legs are strewn across Louis’ lap and how Louis’ hand gently rests on his knee.  
“Sorry, lads.” he says hesitantly, looking like he wants to retreat. “Didn’t mean to interrupt a date or anything-”  
“What?” Louis and Niall say simultaneously, before both bursting out laughing. Niall shakes his head, holding a hand to his mouth as he chuckles.  
“Nah, mate.” he says, letting out another giggle. “I’m just Louis’ handsy friend. We’ve met before, in the tattoo shop that one time? I went with my friend Ed and you helped me convince him not to get a lion’s head tattooed to his chest. And then I invited you to my other friend’s twentieth as a thank you.”  
“Oh yeah, I remember now.” Zayn says with a grin. “Niall right?”  
Niall nods and then extends a hand to fistbump the artist. Zayn compliantly taps his knuckles against Niall’s and then turns to look at Louis. He bites his bottom lip, looking unsure. Scratching his stubble, he studies the writer, and Louis tenses, wondering what’s about to happen. Is Liam okay? What had happened between the two of them in the past half hour that Zayn is now back out here?

“Louis.” Zayn begins. “Could you and I talk for a few moments? Maybe outside, on your fire escape? There’s something Liam told me to ask you about, something that would explain- explain what happened tonight. And then- then he told me to decide if- if I wanted to stay.”

_Oh Liam_. 

Why are you making me do this. 

_It’s your secret, not mine_. 

 

But how the fuck is Louis supposed to say no? Liam is still locked in his room, and he decided to give Louis, of all people, the responsibility of explaining basically everything about him. Because really, what happened Liam does define him as a person. It influenced his career choice. It’s the reason for his constant caution and his anxiety. It’d definitely explain why he had a panic attack tonight. But Liam clearly doesn’t feel able to tell Zayn himself, would probably break at the thought of uttering the words. So he’s trusting Louis, his best friend, to do it. Because that’s what friends are for, right?

And with a start, Louis realizes that yes, that is what friends are for. And that’s all him and Liam are. So, with a clipped nod of his head, Louis gently slides Niall’s legs off his lap and stands up. Indicating with his head towards the door to the fire escape, he starts to walk toward it, Zayn at his heels. And as he opens the door and steps outside, Louis takes a deep breath of cold winter air, knowing this’ll be quite the conversation. 

 

The two guys stand out on the fire escape together, watching the streets below them. Zayn leans against the wall, one foot propped up against it, and Louis walks to the railing, putting his hands on the frigid metal bar and watching the snowflakes swirl down from the black sky above them. He blows out a breath, seeing it billow out in front of him, and tries to find the necessary words. God, he’s nervous to do this. He could use a cigarette. 

And then, almost on cue, Louis hears the unmistakable sound of somebody smoking: lighting up and then inhaling, blowing out the ashes into the air. And since Zayn is the only other being out there with Louis, then it’s gotta be him. Turning around, Louis feels his eyes nearly fall out of his head, because yes, Zayn is actually smoking. Liam Payne actually snogged somebody who actively smokes. Liam Payne is, technically, on a date with somebody who actively smokes. The downright injustice of it is enough to make Louis bit his tongue, swallowing back a curse. How many times has Louis been subjected to all the dangers of smoking? How many times has Louis had to sneak out of the house to satisfy the urge, but then felt so fucking guilty that he couldn't even finish one?  
“You smoke?” Louis says stiffly, hoping the words sound nicer to Zayn’s ears than they do to his, but knowing that they don’t.  
“Yeah.” Zayn says, biting on the end of his cigarette and taking another drag. “You want one?”  
“Nah, trying to quit.” Louis responds, pursing his lips. He looks back out at the lamplight street, sticking a hand in the snow collecting on the fire escape step. Forming a snowball, he aims for the nearest lamppost and then throws it, missing by a good fifteen feet. He probably has nerve damage from all the cigarettes he smoked or some shit. Oh fucking well. 

“So,” Louis begins, dusting off his cold hands. He doesn’t think he can put this off any longer, so he turns around once more, walking back over to Zayn and standing beside him. “Liam told you to ask me to explain some things to you.”  
“Yes.” Zayn supplied with a nod. “Something that happened a couple years ago. That’s all he really told me, but he said it’d make more sense after I talked to you.’  
“Right, okay.” Louis says, exhaling again. He passes a hand over his face and then pinches his nose, wondering how to do this. He pulls his hand away and just looks at Zayn for a few moments, trying to read him.  
The artist is clearly nervous, Louis can tell that by how his hands are clenched into fists into his pockets and how his teeth are gritted around that damn cigarette. And Louis doesn’t really blame him, because Zayn had absolutely no idea what Louis is about to say. He doesn’t know what terrible story the writer is going to tell, and that would scare anyone. But past the nerves, he looks determined. The warm brown of his eyes is calm, his gaze fixated on Louis’ face while he waits for him to speak. Louis doesn’t know how he’ll react, if he’ll leave or not. Many people in Zayn’s position currently would walk out the door, to escape the chaos that is both Liam and Louis and their lives. But somehow, Louis thinks that if Zayn does choose to go, he’ll do it with grace. He won’t intentionally hurt Liam as a way of escape, and that alone compels Louis to speak. 

“I met Liam in university, when we were eighteen. It was in the autumn, and we became friends really quickly.” Louis starts, not even having to shut his eyes to remember that coffee shop where he met Liam. “And we hung out a couple times, getting along great. He was my first true friend in uni, and later, he told me I was his too. And those first couple months, our idea of hanging out as me going over to his dorm room with takeout while he studied. Unbeknownst to me, that didn’t really change through college. I thought he was just a really gung-ho first year, but we kept that practice up every year afterward.

“So, anyway...one day, I head over to his room, Chinese food in my hands for dinner. It was the last day before Christmas break, but we were both staying at uni for vacation anyway, so we were gonna hang out and plan what we wanted to do. I’d wondered why Liam was staying, but hadn’t asked, mostly because I didn’t want him to change his mind and then be the only loser left on the damn campus for the holiday. And this day, it’s snowing lightly, the first snow of the season. It was like a million times lighter than this snow right now, and it was super beautiful actually, clinging to the redbrick buildings of our school. So I get to his room, being my loud, obnoxious, eighteen year old self, expecting him to be bent over a book, because that was his eighteen year old self.”

Here, Louis pauses, swallowing hard. His heart is pounding at the memory, the terror he felt in those moments flooding back through him. He doesn’t know if that terror ever truly went away. But he does know something else: in that dorm room at that snowy, December day, teenage Louis had realized he was in love with Liam. He’d known he had a crush, but up until right then, he never knew how severe it really was. It was all-consuming. 

“Liam was passed out on his bed.” Louis says, his voice trembling slightly at the end of the sentence. “He hyperventilated because of the snow, and not enough oxygen reached his brain, so he went unconscious...but I didn’t realize that until later. I thought he was dead or something, so I started screaming and shaking him, trying to wake him up. Which is probably the worst thing to do when someone faints, but I just panicked. Anyway, he came around eventually, and after awhile...he told me why he had such a bad reaction to the snow. I think Liam knew it was time, or that I deserved to know after finding him like that, maybe he just told me because there was no avoiding it anymore.”

Louis presses a hand to his eyes, feeling it tremble. He won’t cry in front of Zayn, he flat out refuses to. He just needs a couple moments to collect himself, to prepare to tell the worst part of the story. It’s just so fucking sad, and every time Louis thinks about it, he cries. No wonder Liam is the way he is. Suddenly, Louis feels a gentle grip on his elbow, a soft pressure that’s supposed to be reassuring. He removes his hand from his face and looks at Zayn. His face is compassionate, eyes soulful and understanding. Louis thinks that Zayn has probably guessed the ending to the tale he’s spinning, he clearly isn’t stupid, but Louis is going to say it anyway. He has to finish this properly, to make sure Zayn understands everything. For Liam. 

“As I’ve said already, that day was the first snow of that winter. But the day we should really be concerned about is the final snowstorm of the previous one. That was way worse than the flurries before Christmas, or even what’s falling tonight. It happened on January 28th.” Louis says, gulping as he feels vague hysteria rising in his stomach. “Liam’s family were driving home from a day-trip to visit his grandparents, and they got caught in the worst of the storm. And you know that really bad motorway, on the way to Wolverhampton? It was super icy, and they took a turn too quickly, and- and their car crashed. Slammed right into a guardrail around the bend, and more cars just- just kept coming, hitting it again and again.”

“Everybody in the car died, except for Liam.” Louis says in a rush, tripping over the words. ‘His parents, his two sisters, Ruth and Nicola, all gone. Paramedics and doctors and everyone did all they could, but it was no use. Their injuries were too severe, and the- the cold didn’t help either. Liam only made it because he’d been sitting in the far back of the car and avoided the worst of the impact. He- he still almost died though, he was in surgery for hours and they had to shock him back three times.”

Louis hears Zayn’s sharp intake of breath, and his eyes flick to the painter’s face. He looks stunned, his mouth hanging open. His warm brown eyes are now wet with unshed tears, the shock and pain of this revelation evident in his every feature. Louis knows the feeling: he’d felt exactly the same way as he and Liam sat on his uncomfortable college bed, Louis holding Liam as he wept from the force of his memories. 

That day, he told Louis every heartbreaking detail of his past. Liam was in a medically induced coma for ten days after his surgery, and had been in the hospital for four months after the accident. He was hooked up to oxygen and basically had to relearn how to breathe on his own. He was so sick, Liam didn’t even get to attend the funerals of his family. 

Once he was strong enough, his rehabilitation had been grueling, hours and hours of physical therapy. His physical health wasn’t even the worst part: his mental health was in way worse condition. Everytime he made some kind of progress, Liam grew depressed and angry all over again, wondering why he survived when none of his family did. His guilt was basically killing him, even when his injuries weren’t. Louis can still remember something he said that day, his voice thick with tears and pain that Louis would never understand.  
“I don’t know why I was let live.’ he mumbled, his face pressed against Louis’ chest. “Honestly? Most of the time, I wish those doctors had just let me go, let me be with the rest of my family.”

Louis had never been more scared until that moment. And, knowing his own past, that was truly saying something. 

And as with most things, it got better. Liam gradually healed. His rehabilitation ended right before he went to college, clearing him to live normally. He still went for regular check-ups though, mostly to keep a careful watch on his dexterity. Due to the days he spent comatose, there’d been some nerve damage, so it’d taken awhile for things to settle down. His most prominent side effect was his hands shaking, which, given the profession Liam wanted, could’ve been a disaster. At one point, Louis had seen him barely able to pour a cup of tea, that’s how badly they shook. But Liam, being the fighter that he is, refused to let it beat him. He threw himself into studying and his work, doing everything he could to make his hands steady. He built card houses, he sewed, he practiced suturing bananas, and eventually, the day came where they didn’t shake anymore. 

Louis thinks a lot of things saved Liam. Luck was definitely one of them. But, controversially to what Louis normally thinks about Liam’s job, he believes that working to become a doctor might’ve done it too. It gave him a goal, a prize at the end of university. Being in that hospital setting for so long gave him a passion for it, a thirst for knowledge. And mostly, from the moment he lost his family, Liam wanted to dedicate his life to making sure that fewer people went through the same pain. The day he put his white coat on and became a licensed physician was the happiest day of his life, and definitely the happiest day since January 28th, four years earlier. 

Everybody’s families had been in the audience that day. But Louis had made fucking sure that Liam Payne’s name was screamed the loudest. And, in the way, Louis likes to think that maybe he played a role in saving Liam too. 

Of course, Liam still has bad days. Louis doesn’t think anybody can ever truly recover from something like that. The bad days happen when it snows, or when car accident victims come into the hospital, or if it’s the birthday of one of his family members. On these occasions, Liam holes himself up in his room, lying under the duvet with only his head visible. He stares up at the ceiling unblinkingly, and Louis knows that he’s not there in those moments: he’s lost in his own head, in a place with a collision and pain and snow. 

On these days, Louis sees Liam’s hands shake. And they both pretend not to notice. 

 

Louis feels Zayn’s eyes glued to his face, so he raises his bowed head, sniffing deeply. He gives Zayn a watery smile, seeing that the painter’s own face is shining with tears. And suddenly, Louis is swept up in a hug, his entire body being enveloped by Zayn’s arms. Louis stiffens in shock, not expecting _that_ at all. Unsure how to react, he pats Zayn’s back, trying to be comforting. Zayn holds him tightly, his breaths rattling against Louis’. From this close, Louis can smell cologne and paint off his body, masked by smoke. Then, Zayn lets him go, his hands falling back to his sides, and Louis can somewhat breathe again.  
“Thank you for that.” Zayn says, rubbing at his damp face. “Sorry, I can forget boundaries sometimes, if my emotions get too much. Won’t happen again.”  
“Not a problem.” Louis says awkwardly. “You feeling okay? It can be a lot to take in. Trust me, I know that. And I’m sure this isn’t how Liam truly wanted you to find out, but really, it’s probably best you did. “  
“Yeah, I feel alright.” Zayn replies, his voice catching with emotion. “Desperately sad for Liam, of course...but I’m alright. Thank you for telling me as graciously as you did.”  
“Of course.’ Louis says with a nod of his head. Zayn gives a weak smile, glancing back at the door back into the apartment. Louis feels his stomach clench with nerves, because is he planning on leaving and not coming back? He needs to know, because then, he can begin to plan a way of consoling Liam. 

“So..” Louis begins uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “Are you going to stay, then?”  
Zayn looks at him, at the door once more, and then back at Louis. He gives a single nod, a kind smile spreading across his wind-bitten cheeks.  
“Yes.” he says softly, turning around and laying a hand on the door handle. “Yes, I’m staying. I told myself I would stay, no matter what you ended up telling me.”  
“Why?” Louis bursts out, just knowing that Zayn’s answer would be vitally important. It could make or break whatever he was on the cusp of with Liam.  
“Because...the first time I saw Liam, I somehow made him smile, and, right then, I knew that was all I wanted to do. And then I let him get away, after that party. I was so overawed by him, I forgot about normal things, like asking for his number. So, when I saw him in the hospital, of all places, a place that I’d randomly decided to take a work commission from, I figured that was the universe telling me to stop being an idiot and talk to this boy. Because he was just walking around, in those scrubs that still had traces of my paint on them, and I felt like we’d both left some kind of undefined mark on each other.”

Unable to speak, Louis just nods, opening the door and letting Zayn go back inside. He wipes off his shoes against the matt and then heads back down the hall, towards Liam’s room. Watching him go, Louis shakes his head unbelievingly. Louis then goes inside himself, going back to the couch and sitting beside Niall once more. He still feels stunned, not managing to stop the single thought coursing through his head. 

_Zayn Malik, I really wanted to hate you. I really, really did_. 

 

Ten minutes later, Liam comes out of his room, tenderly coaxed out by Zayn. The two boys come into the living room, Liam shyly entering first with Zayn right behind him. He gives Niall a little wave and then looks at Louis, smiling faintly. His face is pale and tear-stained, his lips white and bitten raw. But at least he’s smiling, and it’s probably all because of Zayn, and Louis can be okay with that. He has to be.  
“Hi Nialler, hi Lou.” he whispers, his voice scratchy and weak. “Mind if we watch some TV with you guys?”  
“Of course!” Niall exclaims, grabbing the remote and pausing the film. “Watch whatever ye like.”  
Zayn and Liam nod, moving to sit down on the opposite sofa to Niall and Louis’. Zayn sits first, not seeing Liam hang back. Liam remains standing, nervously eyeing the open space next to Zayn on the couch. The painter looks at him then, his eyes indescribably tender. He puts one arm around the back of the sofa, clearly opening it up for Liam to sit down and lean into his chest. He then offers his other hand to Liam to take, holding it up in the air.  
“Sit here, babe.” Zayn says softly, his voice so hushed that they barely hear it. Liam then sits down, taking Zayn’s hand as he does so and holding on loosely, like it’ll break if he grips too hard. And from where he is, Louis can see Liam’s hand trembling uncontrollably. But his shaking is lessened by Zayn’s steadiness, his weak hand being held by Zayn’s sure one. 

 

Gradually, the awkwardness in the room between the four of them fades away. Niall asks Zayn about his mural at the hospital. Zayn talks about it eagerly, explaining how the people who commissioned him wanted it to be aquatic-themed. So, his plan is to get every child in the pediatric centre to design a fish of their own, and then he’ll paint them all in a school, putting the child’s name beneath their fish. He’s not too far into the project, just laying out the foundation first, but he sounds wildly enthusiastic about it. Liam interjects every so often, telling them all of his patients in the ward, who are already planning what their animal will look like. He gets slightly happier as he talks about the kids, his eyes beginning to shine a bit.  
“Zayn, there’s this one little girl, named Bella. You know the one, with cystic fibrosis?’ Liam says, turning to look at Zayn, his face animated. “She showed me her fish design, it’s the cutest thing. It’s got loads of black swirls and squiggles on its scales, right? So I asked her what they were, and she said that they’re your tattoos. It’s her Zayn-Fish.”  
“Fuck’s sake.’ Niall mutters, his voice louder probably than he intends. “I feel like I need to punch a fucking wall to feel manly again.”

Suddenly, Niall’s phone started ringing, his ringtone of _Mr. Brightside_ sounding garishly loud in the quiet room. Mumbling a curse under his breath, he lunges over Louis’ body, grabbing the phone from where it’s sitting on the coffee table. Niall swipes along the screen and then holds the mobile to his ear, his brow furrowing.  
“Haz?” he says. “You alright, man?”  
Louis freezes, focusing more intently on the phone conversation, and yes, those are indeed Harry’s low tones come through the phone’s speaker. What the hell could he possibly want from Niall? It’s Saturday night, shouldn’t he be out smoking weed or desecrating books or hooking up with strangers or doing whatever the fuck he does in his free time? Niall stands up, holding the phone away from his ear and motioning towards the hallway with his head.  
"Gotta take this.” he mouths, already beginning to walk away. Louis watches him go in despair, because now he’s alone with Zayn and Liam, and there’s a lot of things Louis can handle, but he doesn’t think that’s one of them. He glues his eyes to the TV screen, watching the footie match they’d put on, and fervently ignores the way Liam has casually rested his head on Zayn’s shoulder. 

Somebody up there takes pity on Louis that night though, because Niall comes back a minute or two later, looking vaguely disgruntled. He puts his phone on silent and shoves it into his jeans pocket, then flinging himself back down by Louis. Louis glances at him worriedly, seeing the confused look in Niall’s face, and put a hand on his shoulder.  
“You alright?” he asks quietly, his voice almost lower than the buzz of the television. “Everything good?”  
“Yeah.” Niall says slowly, looking at the space of carpet between his feet. “Well...no. I dunno. Harry’s being weird. Weirder than normal.”  
“That must be something.” Louis blurts out before he can stop himself. Thankfully, Niall chuckles, shaking his head a little sadly. He studies his hands, picking at the ragged cuticles of his nails, before speaking again.  
“He and his boyfriend are on the rocks.” he begins, clearly not aware that Louis already knows this information. “And ya know, that’s pretty normal for them. One day, they’ll be on. And the next day, they’re off and everything is shit for Harry. But it normally only lasts a day or two, and then they’re on again. But they had a fight a few weeks ago, and have been off since, and he won’t tell me what it was about, no matter how hard I try to pry it out of him.”  
“I see.” Louis says, feeling kinda guilty that he knows what occurred between Harry and Grimmy and that Niall, Harry’s supposed best friend, doesn’t. But really, it’s not his fault. He just happened to be around when Harry was in the thick of it, and it’s the librarian himself who decides who gets to know the details afterwards.  
“Like...I hate Nick Grimshaw. I think he’s a fucking prick.” Niall says bluntly. “And I don’t think he treats Harry the way he deserves. Harry’s a passionate guy, he tends to pour all of himself into things he loves, and yeah, I get most people aren’t like that. But it still hurts to see him not understand why the passion isn’t reciprocated. But Harry definitely seems happier with Grimmy around, so I guess I shouldn’t complain too much.’  
“That makes sense, Niall.” Liam quips in, probably trying to be supportive. Niall sends the doctor a smile, looking grateful.  
“He’s just moped around our flat for the past couple weeks. I don’t think he’s even gone into work, but for the amount that that place polices him, he’s probably allowed to not show up. He’s just called me now, because he’s baking cupcakes, and he wants me to try them when I get home. It’s like...his stress relief I guess?”  
“There’s definitely worse way to destress.” Louis says, fighting a wry grin at the thought of Harry high while baking. He’s probably sprinkle weed shavings over the batter.  
“Well, yeah.” Niall concedes. “But not when it’s his twentieth batch. We have so many uneaten cupcakes around our flat, Louis. I’ve probably gained two stone trying to eat all of them and assuring Harry they taste good! I think he’s languishing up there, you know? And it’s because of that fucker-”

Niall’s voice falters and he sighs, dragging his hands down his face. Tugging them away, he gives himself a shake and tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Niall is obviously worried about his friend, and who knew what torture he’d put himself through to come here tonight? He probably felt like he was abandoning Harry for Louis, and yeah, that was great that he cared enough for Louis to do that, to even _consider_ it. But also makes Louis kinda feel like shit, because he’ll never get used to being put first, and nobody should be locked up in their flat alone (however beautiful it is), and seriously, _twenty_ batches of cupcakes? 

 

“Invite him over.” Louis says quickly, before he regret it. (He fucking knows he’ll regret it though.)  
“What?” Niall says, looking at Louis with wide eyes, and okay, is it healthy to look that stunned at some kindness towards Harry?  
“Invite him over.” Louis repeats. “We could use a fifth lad, there’s an empty chair over there that Styles can perch his arse on. I think the snow’s getting lighter, so he could make the trip easily enough.”  
“You mean it?” Niall says with a beam that reaches his eyes this time. “You don’t mind if he comes over to hang out here? I felt so bad leaving him tonight, I think some time with other people would be good for him-”  
“Yeah, it would be. Zayn, Liam, any objections?” Louis asks, looking at the two boys on the opposite couch. Both their heads snap up from where they’re murmuring quietly to each other, matching fond smiles on their faces. Liam gives a little shake of his head, biting down on his bottom lip and turning it pink, and Louis doesn’t know what they were just saying to one another, but he hopes he never finds out.  
“Yeah, no problem.” Liam says, somewhat breathlessly. “I’d like to see Harry again. He and I didn’t get to speak much at his party.”

_Well, I actually doubt you spoke at all, considering that Harry didn’t want to meet anyone at his party_ , Louis thinks to himself, _And that you had your hands- and lips- full with Zayn_. 

Niall beams again, scrambling up and pulling his phone out of his pocket. He rapidly scrolls through his contacts and then rushes out of the room once more, his eager voice ringing in the hall as he tells Harry to “get his non-existent arse over here right away.”  
“Tell him to bring some of the cupcakes!” Louis calls out into the hallway, wondering when exactly he finally lost his sanity and decided to willingly invite Harry Styles in his home. 

 

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings for the third time that night, a _ding-dong_ that somehow still manages to remind Louis of a death toll. Niall jumps up, nearly tripping over his feet to answer the door. He runs over to the door and tugs it open, nearly vibrating with excitement.  
“Hazza!!” Niall bellows as the boy himself appears into view, the front door slamming into the wall behind it. Louis winces as he sees a few flecks of paint flutter down from the wall and collect on the floor. Having Niall around guarantees some collateral damage. “You’re here!”  
“Indeed I am.” Harry says quietly, the rich timbre of his voice contrasted against Niall’s excitement. Niall grins and claps his hands together, stepping back from the doorframe and letting Harry in. The librarian carefully wipes his feet on the doormat, standing still as Niall brushes the snow off his shoulders. There’s something different about him, Louis sensed it as soon as he walked in, but he can’t put his finger on it just yet. Knowing Harry, it’ll be something fucking odd. 

Figuring that he better play host to some extent, Louis stands up. He walks over slowly, assembling his lips into a tight smile. Harry and Niall stand side by side, Niall nattering away to his roommate like they hadn’t seen each other a few mere hours ago. In Harry’s hands is a plastic container, Cling Wrap carefully stretched across the top.  
“Hello Harry.” Louis says carefully, his voice controlled. He doubts Harry remembers the angry words of their last encounter, given how high he was, but Louis definitely remembers it. He can still feel the enraged flush that spread across his entire body as he defended Jane. So, he has no clue how this one will go. With their past record, probably badly.  
“Good evening-Louis.” Harry says haltingly, turning his head from looking at Niall and then focusing on the poet. As they look at each other, whatever was different about Harry clicks in Louis’ head. For the first time ever, he’s dressed like a normal human being. Every time Louis has seen him before, he’s wearing something hipsterish: too tight jeans or flowy shirts or bandanas. But tonight, he’s wearing an oversized jumper, one that dips down and shows his collarbones. The long sleeves are rolled up to his wrists, but Louis knows that if they were let loose, they’d cover his hands. Past the jumper are sweatpants, navy blue things that’re faded from being washed one time too many. His feet, happily lacking those ridiculous boots, are adorned with simple trainers, still slightly damp from the snow. 

It’s...different. Very different. 

“Glad you could make it.” Louis says, raising his eyes to look at Harry’s face. His cheeks are blown pink from the winter wind, and his lips are roughly chapped, looking like he’d been biting at them. His hair is a wild mess, damp from the snow and random corkscrew curls springing up in odd directions. His face looks drawn and tired, lines from exhaustion around his green eyes. Tonight, they look nearly blue, altered by the gray of his sweater. Behind the reddened cheeks, his skin is pale. But what Louis notices most is how young Harry looks tonight. 

Dressed like this, Harry’s youth is painfully clear. Louis can see the baby fat still lingering on his cheeks, and the patches of stubble along his chin, in places he missed shaving. Sure, Louis knows that there’s only two years between them, but he also knows that there’s a big difference between twenty-two and twenty. And Harry is barely twenty, really. He’s just three years older than Charlotte, hardly out of his teens. As this realization comes to him, that Harry is fairly near in age to his sister, Louis’ stomach turns at the memory of Grimmy putting his grimy hands all over the boy. Creep. 

Hopefully, these reflections didn’t take as long in reality than as they did in Louis’ head. He gives himself a slight shake that brings him back to reality, where Harry is holding out the cupcake tray for Louis to take.  
“They’re red velvet.” Harry says quietly as Louis fumbles to take the platter from him.“Cream cheese icing, I hope that’s alright, some people don’t like it-”  
“All good.” Louis says, jumping at the chill of Harry’s hand against his own warm one as he hands off the baked goods. “I’ll just...just put them in the kitchen and get plates. Uh- follow Niall into the sitting room, I guess...Liam and Zayn are in there if you wanna say hi.”  
“Lads, I’m starvin’.” Niall interjects, popping his head over Harry’s shoulder. “Can we order a takeaway, before we eat the cupcakes? There’s an Indian place around the corner that’s ace-”  
“I vividly remember you eating dinner before you came here, Niall.” Harry responds with a faint smile curling on his lips. “And I only remember such a thing because you coaxed me into cooking it for you.”  
Niall sticks his tongue out at Harry, turning to Louis with hopeful eyes. Louis has two seconds of indecision before he gives in, because he is hungry himself. (Vodka shots do nothing to fill your stomach). Niall whoops and scrambles to get his phone, looking up the number on the website. Harry goes into the sitting room, whereas Louis escapes as quickly as possible in the opposite direction, going to the kitchen.  
Louis sets the tray of cupcakes down on the countertop, trying to reorganize his thoughts with everything that’s occurred already tonight. And now, it looks like he’s in for quite a domestic evening, eating Indian food and baked goods with his best friend, his best friend’s _something_ , (Louis isn’t calling Zayn Liam’s boyfriend yet, okay), his 2nd best friend, and a person he hates and who hates him in return. Lovely. 

 

An hour later, the five guys are all sprawled in the sitting room, bellies full and eyes glassy from the meal they’d just consumed. Empty curry cartons litter the coffee table, and Louis knows he should be annoyed by the smell they’re bound to cause, but he can’t really be bothered right now. He’s back in his original place, Niall’s legs once again thrown over his lap. Liam and Zayn are curled up together on the couch, and Harry sits on the airchair, his spine rigidly straight. He’s the only one who hadn’t gradually relaxed as they ate, which shouldn’t really be surprising. Other than that, Louis was surprised how easy it was for the five of them all to hang out. He and Niall obviously have good banter, but to Louis’ delight, Liam was even getting into the verbal sparring, egged on by Zayn. Zayn’ll whispered something in Liam’s ear, urging him to say it, and then Liam bursts forth, looking thrilled at whatever reaction he gets. Currently, they’re all slagging Niall about his love life, which to everyone else there but Louis, is nonexistent. The writer, however, knows better, and he finds himself wishing that he didn’t. Still, making Niall blush is always a laugh.  
“I don’t understand how a lad like you is single, Ni.” Liam says, sounding genuinely curious. “You’re charming, and girls are always tripping over themselves for you, aren’t they? Because of your band?”  
“Yeah.” Zayn adds with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Niall, you should be tearing a hole through the city of London. British girls really dig Irish blokes, man.”  
“Ah, but how would Louis here feel?” Niall retorts goodnaturedly, reaching over and patting his sticky fingers against Louis’ cheek. Louis shoves him away, grimacing. “Since we’re dating and everythin’?”  
“Lucky fucking me.” Louis grumbles, swiping at his face. “What did I do in a past life to deserve a gem like you?”  
“Dunno, mate.” Niall says, sitting up and swiping the remote control. Louis rolls his eyes and mumbles under his breath, confident that nobody will hear him,  
“Something fucking terrible, clearly.”

 

But the sudden burst of laughter off to Louis’ left tells him that yes, somebody did in fact hear him. _Harry_ heard him. And what’s even more amazing is that he found Louis funny. Looking up, Louis glances over at Harry, seeing him press a hand to his mouth, trying to smother his laugh. His eyes are narrowed into slits, his head thrown back in ecstasy. His laugh is deep, surprise surprise, and it’s almost a cackle, a _ahahaHAHAHAHA_ that builds as it goes on. Louis blinks in confusion, because 1. He never would’ve guessed that Harry Styles could’ve made a noise like that (Louis honestly didn’t think he could laugh at all, except maybe a bitter scoff). And 2. He still can’t believe that he of all people caused it. 

Harry turns his head at the wrong time, making swift eye contact with Louis. He feels himself blush, a red flush staining his cheeks, but he doesn’t turn his head away. Harry’s smile gradually slides off his face, and he presses his mouth together in a tight line. There couldn’t be a greater contrast between what he just looked like. There’s a challenge in his green eyes, a question that almost dares Louis to ask _What’s so funny, Styles_?

But Louis doesn’t. 

Instead, he tears his blue eyes away Harry’s imprisoning green. Turning to the right, he then asks the other boys,  
“Anyone ready for cupcakes yet?”  
At their hearty assent, (mostly Niall’s), Louis stands up, walking towards the kitchen. And he pretends that his legs don’t tremble when he hears Harry’s quiet footsteps tread behind him. 

 

“May I assist you?” Harry’s low voice asks from behind Louis in the kitchen. He stands at the countertop, looking down at the tray of desserts in front of him. Taking a deep breath that he hopes isn’t too audible, Louis turns on his heels, plastering a smile to his face. Harry stands in front of him, casting a shadow along the tile floor. And fuck no, Louis refuses to be intimidated in his own house. This is his turf, dammit.  
“Nah, mate, it’s alright!” he says, trying too hard to be cheery. “Go back in, I’ll be fine.”  
“I would like to help.” Harry continues, taking a step closer. Louis fidgets uncomfortably, holding his ground for two solitary seconds before he steps aside. If Harry wants to get his hands messy from putting iced cupcakes on plates, he can be Louis’ guest. Walking slowly, Harry approaches the tray and peels back the Clingwrap. Meanwhile, Louis walks over to the cabinet and tugs it open, looking for the least breakable plates they own.

And _fucking hell_ , Liam must’ve absentmindedly moved the plates the last time he did the dishes. Now, they’re on the very top shelf, out of Louis’ reach. Straining up on his tiptoes, Louis reaches for the china, but try as he might, he can’t reach them. Swallowing a spew of curses against his height, he drops back down on his heels, hanging his head as he blushes. This’ll have to go into the ever-growing collection of “Times Louis Wanted to Die From Embarrassment.”  
“Harry?” Louis says, not turning around so he doesn’t have to look at the younger boy. “Think you could get those plates for me?”  
“Of course.” Harry says silkily, with a wry smile playing on his lips. Louis fights a scream at the pure injustice of the world as Harry slopes over and leans over Louis, reaching up and easily bringing down the plates in one hand.  
“Looks like you needed my help, after all.” he teases as he hands Louis the plates. Louis grips them tightly, feeling his knuckles tighten, and he forces a chuckle. Whirling back around, he goes over to the cupcakes and slams the plates down beside them, surprised that the bottom one didn’t shatter.  
“Could use you again.” he says gruffly. “Wanna help plate these or not?”

 

Harry and Louis stand side by side, the librarian steadily putting the cupcakes on plates and the writer sliding them away. Harry has steady hands, nimbly removing each dessert from the box and being careful not to smear any of the icing. It’s awkwardly quiet in the kitchen: all Louis can hear is the _tick-tocking_ of the clock and his own breathing. But then, to his amazement, Harry speaks. 

“How is your reading going?” he asks quietly. “From what I remember, you checked out quite a few books, the last time you were at the library.”  
“It’s going great, thanks.” Louis snaps curtly. “I’m particularly enjoying _Bleak House_ , _Jane Eyre_ , and _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_.”  
Harry doesn’t react, doesn’t even blink, so either he doesn’t remember all the details of their last encounter, or he’s just choosing to ignore them. He nods slowly, pursing his lips together. Louis nearly feels disappointed, because honestly? Another fight with this bloke would be better than whatever vibe they’ve got going now. Harry puts the last cupcake on a plate and then steps back, dusting his hands off.  
“There, all done.” he says softly, his expression unreadable. “Now, I would help you carry them out too, but I think I’d prefer to just stay in here for awhile.”  
“Alright.” Louis concedes, feeling relief flood through him because whatever just happened seems to be over. He picks up the two plates they’d filled with cupcakes and walks over to the kitchen door, preparing to walk out of it. Looking back at the last second, he sees Harry walk over to the table, sinking down into a chair. Pulling the bag he’d brought with him onto his lap, Harry reaches inside and pulls out a book, his long fingers flicking idly through the pages. And as Louis sees the cover, takes in the title, he nearly drops his plates in shock. 

Because Harry’s reading the _The Book Thief_

A story of a girl who loved books so much, she stole them. From the mayor’s house, from burning fires, from gravesites. A story about a Jewish young man who dreamed of punching Hitler’s lights out. A story of a German people who lived on a street called “Heaven.” A story of a boy with lemon-colored hair, who painted himself black with coal to be like Jesse Owens. A story about Death, who watches it all and mourns. 

Louis swallows. 

 

“Good choice.” he says suddenly, shakily. “That book...it’s excellent.”  
Harry smiles, a feeble twitch of his lips. He looks down at the tattered paperback in his hands, gazing his fingers over the cover, tracing the domino imprinted on it. It’s the first time Louis has seen him treat a book reverently.  
“I have to read it for a class.” he says softly, “And I’m only one hundred pages in, but I’m enjoying it far more than I expected.”  
“It drags a little at the beginning.” Louis replies, trying to stop himself from gushing about everything brilliant about that book. “You kinda...have to suspend your belief a bit and-and just go with what’s happening.”  
“Yes, I do agree.” Harry says, toying with one of the dog-eared pages. His bookmark falls to the ground, but he doesn’t bother to pick it up. Louis knows that this is probably his cue to leave, that Harry wants to get reading. And Jesus Christ, Louis can’t blame him for that, _The Book Thief_ is fucking compelling, it’s a modern classic. But...but there’s just one more thing he needs to know.  
‘Who’s your favourite character so far?” he asks in a rush, staring at the plates in his hands, instead of at Harry. “I mean, they’re all good, all amazing, but...is there one that sticks out to you?”  
“I thought it would be Rudy originally.” Harry replies, looking at Louis once more. His gaze is sharp and biting, looking intelligent and confident. “Because he reminded me of Niall. But given the nature of the book, I told myself not to get too attached. So, right now, my favourite character is Death.”  
“Really?” Louis asks, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “But- but he’s not really a character, is he? He’s the narrator, yeah, but he doesn’t really affect the plot very much.”  
“I’d argue that Death is the plot.” Harry responds, his voice level. “Given that everyone is constantly trying to escape him. However, that is not the reason I enjoy his character. I like his weariness. He doesn’t want to do what he does, and yet he does it, because there is no one else. He sees the pain, he _feels_ it as if it’s his own, And yet he can do nothing.”

Louis barely has time to contemplate that and decide that it’s actually pretty fucking smart before Harry speaks again.  
“Do you have a favourite?” he asks and Louis gulps, because yes, yes he bloody does. This character was the reason he loved the book at all.  
“Max.” he says breathlessly. “Max is my favourite.”  
“I see.” Harry says, not asking anything else, not asking why, and Louis feels the strangest sense of disappointment. Because if he had asked, Louis might’ve just told him why that character- and that book- affected him as much as it did. 

If Harry had asked, Louis would’ve told him he first read _The Book Thief_ when he was seventeen. This was after his local librarian had found him rereading _Percy Jackson_ for the fifth time, and decided that he needed something a bit more mature. She’d pushed the hardback into his willing hands, probably knowing that his literary mind would devour it. Louis was dubious at the time, because he was going through his science fiction/fantasy phase, and didn’t think a historical fiction book would hold his interest for very long. However, he loved that librarian, and she’d never led him wrong before, so he gave it a shot. The first two hundred pages had dragged, but Louis had a long weekend off from school, so he locked himself in the basement and decided to just read until it was done. 

And then Max entered the story. 

A Jewish streetfighter that abandoned his family to save himself. A teenager who wanted to fight the Fuhrer, training in the dark, as if that would make it happen. A boy who had to go into hiding because of who he was. One of two characters of the book who _survived_ until the end. The one person in the story that Louis identified with, the one who struck too close to home. 

If Harry had asked, Louis would’ve told him that _The Book Thief_ was the last book he read while in the closet. 

Louis finished that book in his basement the Sunday of that long weekend. He closed it, set it on top of a table, and then proceeded to bawl his eyes out for about five hours. He was crying for a lot of reasons. One being that the ending was so fucking sad, and another being that strange loss you feel whenever you finish an amazing novel. There’s no feeling quite like it, because some books just have a strange magic, and you never get it back once that final page is turned. But mostly, Louis was crying because, even seventy years later after the story would’ve transpired, themes of it still resounded. People were still hiding who they were. 

And Louis decided that he simply didn’t want to hide anymore. So he left _The Book Thief_ were it was, going upstairs as quickly as possible. He brought his mum and his stepdad into the living room, and told them that he was gay. And even five years later, Louis still gets chills looking at that book cover. 

But Harry didn’t ask any of that. 

 

“C’mon.” Louis says, walking over and offering one of the cupcake plates to Harry. “I could actually use your help carrying these out. And besides, don’t you want to see everyone’s reaction to your baking?’

 

Of fucking course he can bake too. 

Louis lays on the couch, in a food coma after eating about five cupcakes in a row. He feels about fifteen pounds heavier, and he just knows he’ll have major regret later. But seriously, Louis can’t remember the last time he ate something as delicious as those fucking red velvet cupcakes. Niall is passed out beside him, half asleep. He has traces of white icing framing his mouth, and Louis stifles a laugh. What a charmer.  
“Harry.” Niall groans. “If I ever have a heart attack due to high cholesterol, I’m blaming you.”  
From his seat, Harry chuckles, not looking up from where he’s tapping out a text on his phone. Louis briefly wonders who he’s texting, wonders if it’s Grimmy, but then decides not to think about it. He’s too full.  
“Yeah, they were delicious, Harry!” Liam gushes happily. Harry looks at him, fighting a fond smile, Louis, for his part, fights a smirk. Nobody can help being endeared by Liam Payne, even Harry Styles. He wonders if now Harry feels bad for choosing not to meet Liam on his birthday.  
“Niall.” Harry says suddenly, turning to look at the blonde. “I’ve got a preposition for you.”  
“Mmhhmm?” Niall says groggily, raising his head up. One of his cheeks is redder than the other, from being pressed against the couch cushion.  
“Gemma is texting me currently.” Harry begins, his voice strangely formal. “She’s in a bit of a panic. A- a relative of ours is coming up to visit she and I next weekend, our Aunt Muriel. And this particular aunt...she likes to check up on us, as she says. So basically, she’s checking to see that every aspect of our lives is aligned to what she desires.”  
“Yeah, yeah, Gems has told me about her.” Niall says, rubbing at one of his eyes blearily. He’s so sleepy, he doesn’t even bother to stop the affectionate term for Harry’s sister coming forward.  
“Well, basically...Gemma needs a significant other to bring to this lunch date with our aunt.” Harry says, and Niall freezes, his entire body tensing. He looks at Harry with wide eyes, a nervous giggle bubbling up in his chest and spilling over.  
“Oh, I don’t think I’m the man for that job.” he says, his voice high. “I know it’d be fake, of course! But..but Gemma and I are too good friends for that. We’d never be believable.”

_My arse, Niall_. Louis thinks to himself. _What you’re not believable as is friends. Really, it’s amazing Harry hasn’t put two and two together yet_. 

“Yes, I suppose.” Harry says, frowning as he looks back at his phone screen. “She’s just very worried, because our aunt likes to see that we’re being ‘normal,’ and to her, being in a relationship is a prime example of that. Gemma feels obligated to do the thing properly, and be one half of a cute heterosexual couple. I will be bringing Nick, of course, and that will undoubtedly shock Aunt Muriel enough, so I guess Gemma feels like she has to overcompensate-”  
“You’re bringing Nick?” Niall blurts out, looking shocked himself.  
“Yes.” Harry says stiffly, not looking at his friend anymore. “It will be fine.”  
“But I thought-” Niall continues, and Jesus, cupcakes seem to loosen his tongue as much as alcohol.  
“I said it’ll be fine, Niall.” Harry intones. “I do not have anything to worry about with this meeting. Gemma, however, does, and I’d like to assist her.”  
“Okay.” Niall says doubtfully. shrugging his shoulders. “Well, I’d like to help, I really would, but...I don’t think it’s a good idea.”  
“Don’t you care about her at all, Niall?” Harry asks irritably, and _ouch_. Niall physically winces, like Harry’s words hit him like a punch. Louis looks at him worriedly, sympathy flooding through him. He knows exactly what it’s like to care for someone, to love someone, and not get to show it. His example is currently lying on the opposite couch, half asleep, his head on another boy’s chest. Zayn’s hand is running through Liam’s brown hair gently, the look on his face reverent, and Louis fights his own wince. 

“I’ll do it.” Louis says, clearly not thinking at all. Because Niall looks too sad, and that’s a crime, and Harry is somehow still manages to be a dickhead, and if Louis can’t be Liam’s real boyfriend, then he might as well be Gemma Styles’ fake one for a day or two. 

 

_Hey Gemma, I hear you’re in need of a significant other to assuage an elderly relative_. 

**Louis??? English please**. 

_I would like to offer my services. I am quite gay, but I’m also a good actor_. 

**LOUIS OH MY GODDDD THANK YOU :DDDDDDDD**

_Just give me more details once you know what’s happening with her visit :)_

**Will do, boyfriend :P**


End file.
